Black Rock Bound
by Avelynn Tame
Summary: Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. When danger forces him into exile, will she be able to keep herself from killing him? Or keep her hands off him?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Black Rock Bound

**Author: **Avelynn Tame/ficcingwitch

**Disclaimer:** It pains me to say it, but I don't own anything to do with The Mentalist. If I did, I'd ensure that Lisbon had plenty more kickass moments, not to mention hot love interests.

**Summary: **Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. When danger forces him into exile, will she be able to keep herself from killing him? Or keep her hands off him?

**Author's Notes:** First and foremost, credit has to go to my fantastic friend and beta, **B**, for: a) coming up with the idea for this fic; and b) putting up with all the subsequent ranting/madness that accompanied my writing it.

This fic was heavily – and I mean _heavily_ – inspired by the film Smoke Screen, starring Currie Graham (ahh, yes, my motivation for watching it is becoming clear, you see?). He plays a man who was once accused of murder; although the accusation was false, his reputation was destroyed and he now lives the life of a recluse in the woods. Certain aspects of this story are based on the events of that film. I'll be sure to point them out to you as and when they pop up ;-)

One final note - the title of this fic comes from the first verse of the Edgar Allan Poe poem _To The Lake_, which goes like this:

_In Spring of youth it was my lot_

_To haunt of the wide world a spot_

_The which I could not love the less_

_So lovely was the loneliness_

_Of a wild lake, with black rock bound_

_And the tall pines that towered around._

It has some relevance later in the story, I promise!_  
_

Happy reading!

* * *

It was beyond the pale. They couldn't do this to him - no-one could do this to him. Putting a leash on Walter Mashburn was equivalent to holding down a tiger to receive an injection - he did not want. He _really_ did not want.

It wasn't as though he couldn't understand the reasoning behind it. This 'concerned acquaintance' guy, whoever he was, obviously meant serious business. Walter wasn't stupid; he knew where his strengths lay, and trying to beat a guy who could apparently defeat even the most rigorous security system - by himself - was not one of them. Involving law enforcement had been his only recourse. Of course, that had come with a few rather important restrictions...

The CBI agent in front of him rubbed a hand over his weary face. "The thing is, Mr Mashburn, this is not a problem that we can solve overnight. And since you've refused to accept a safe house - "

Walter made a noise of indignation. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Well, we weren't, and that option is still on the table if you want to consider it."

His only response was a look of impatient scepticism.

"Anyway," Agent Heckman continued, "this is the next best thing."

"Really? The next best thing?" Walter leaned forward, his gaze so focused it was boring a hole in Heckman's head. "Plan A was to hole me up somewhere in California. Plan B, the 'next best thing', is to... hole me up somewhere in California. Am I missing something here?"

"The safe house is not acceptable to you, clearly. But you yourself mentioned that you have this house - not registered in your name, no-one knows you own it, completely isolated... it's a good bet, Mr Mashburn. I really think you should go along with this."

Walter sat back in his chair, suppressing a sigh. "If it were just a matter of going to live someplace else for a while, do you really think I'd argue with that? Agent Heckman, this is not about alternative accommodation, it's about the fact that you want me to be under house arrest at all times. No contact with the outside world. No communication with my employees, my board of directors - no business activity whatsoever, in fact. In short, I have to drop off the face of the earth. That's what you're asking of me, right?"

Reluctantly, Heckman nodded. "You wouldn't be totally cut off - one of our agents would come and visit you on a daily basis, make sure you're safe and well." He hesitated, and pushed on. "I really wish you would reconsider your objection to having one of our agents stay with you."

Walter shook his head. "Not going to happen. Bad enough that you're persuading me to consider this at all."

"All right." Heckman gave up. "As soon as you're ready, we'll arrange transport."

"Great," he muttered. "But remember what I said, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Heckman could hardly forget - on this one particular point, Walter Mashburn had been very clear. "Under no circumstances are any members of the SCU, most especially Teresa Lisbon, to find out about your situation."

"And if they do?" Walter prompted.

Heckman sighed, and recited the words that had been so vehemently spoken nearly an hour ago. "I'll be living in a box, fighting for scraps with the pigeons."

"Yes, you will."

* * *

Part of him had thought it would be fun. Like camping.

He had a few friends who liked to do this sort of thing - seal themselves away, live on nothing but bread and their own thoughts.

Walter Mashburn? Not so much. He liked his creature comforts.

Which was why his Sequoia National Park residence was the natural choice for his CBI-imposed retreat. Truthfully, it wasn't so much _in_ the National Park as next to it - he owned a small patch of woodland, a mere seventy-three acres, which was as near to perfect as he could imagine. The trees were densely packed, and stretched up high around the house, enclosing it safely. There were a few well-trodden paths, but for the most part it was all-natural terrain. Only one road in. And the nearest town was twelve miles away.

Every other property he owned was not only traceable to him through paperwork, but also available for public scrutiny as a result of the numerous interior design and architecture magazines to whom he'd allowed so many liberties in terms of access and photography. His Sequoia house had been a secret gift for Marie Bajoran (nee Jarret, at the time) while they'd been engaged. It was intended as a wedding present, but her apparent insanity had put paid to that whole notion. Unable to stomach seeing her name on the papers, and too full of self-loathing to change it to his own, he'd simply invented a persona.

Six years later, 'Billy-Joe Korsakoff' was about to do him a huge favour.

* * *

The bloom was soon off the rose.

At first, it had been wonderful – the peace and quiet, the beautiful scenery, the feeling of being completely safe and unobserved. His solitude had been interrupted only by the daily visit from one of Heckman's team. Walter had fought hard against this intrusion, but Heckman had fought harder, and eventually he'd been forced to admit that it might be kind of useful to have someone stopping by to check he was still alive.

It was late summer. Most days, he left the glass sliding doors – the ones that led out to the patio, with its small reflecting pool and attractive stonework – wide open, letting the breeze drift through the house.

The boundaries of his patch of land were separated from the national park by nothing more than sturdy wooden fencing, but he didn't let that stop him. He was out in the forest every day; he often walked for miles, sometimes plotting out circular routes that would take him through some of the most picturesque areas. About a mile from the house, for example, there was a deep pond in which the water was surprisingly clear. On inspection, he'd found that it was supplied by a small, trickling stream from a ragged slope that led up to the edge of his land.

He'd wasted no time at all in stripping down to his birthday suit and taking a swim. The water was cold, but so clear that he could see the bottom of the pond, and the uneven rocks that jutted out below the waterline.

He could almost forget about the maniac who'd decided to make his life a living hell.

By day he walked and swam; by night he attempted to cook, played a little basketball in the yard, and plotted business takeovers from the charming office that overlooked the hills that sloped downwards toward the road.

And for the first four days, that was fine.

Day five onwards, he started to lose it.

* * *

It was quiet. And isolated. And he was bored out of his mind.

His cell phone had been confiscated by the CBI and his landline disconnected; he had no internet access, and his TV picked up only a smattering of terrestrial channels, most of which were showing painfully embarrassing reality TV shows and a handful of passable dramas. The Spanish telenovelas were fine at first, but since he only really understood anything when the characters were talking about food, he quickly lost interest.

Having said that, he held a particular fondness for _Love's Throbbing Flame_. The heroine, Trisa, was feisty and strong, not to mention incredibly beautiful.

He was a smart man. He didn't delude himself into thinking that he was genuinely interested in Trisa's tumultuous affair with Carlos, the sheriff with a hidden past, or her quest to find her real parents, or – the latest storyline – her fight to prove her innocence after being wrongly accused of murder.

The fact was, no matter how hard he tried to get her out of his mind, Teresa Lisbon was not budging.

He really hoped Heckman hadn't done something stupid, like tell her what was going on. For a start, he didn't even know how she would react anymore; six months ago, she would have been worried. Now... who knew?

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that maybe he should have fought harder to keep the relationship - such as it was - alive. He regretted his foolish words at the start of their courtship: "Let's just... _try_ this. You and me. It doesn't have to be a lifelong commitment - all I'm talking about is a date. And if you change your mind about me, that's fine. But... you won't."

But... she _had_. Looking back, he couldn't believe how confident he'd been - going straight to her apartment after arriving back in the country, his arrogant smile as he'd offered her an out, his assumption that she would do no such thing. The truly frustrating thing was that it had been going so well between them. The dates, the sex... god, the _sex_...

He shook his head. Near the top of his list of 'stupid things to do while stuck in the woods' was 'fire up the libido with no way of actually using it'.

In any case - it had been her wish for privacy that he'd lost out to. He wasn't exactly some A-list celebrity, but he was a handsome, unmarried billionaire. To the tabloids, he was fresh meat, and that meant occasionally being accosted outside his house, or his office, or a restaurant. He was used to it, even enjoyed the attention to a degree, but for Teresa it was an unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable situation. Her life was small and insignificant - as far as she was concerned, anyway - and most of all, private.

Maybe, she'd said to him on the day they broke up, if she was working in a dead-end job with no career ladder to speak of, it wouldn't matter so much. But she was a Senior Agent in one of the premier law enforcement agencies on the west coast. She dealt with the public every day, and a large number of higher-ups who could crush or nurture her career on a whim. If they thought she'd become someone's trophy girlfriend, they'd no longer take her seriously. And everything she'd worked so hard for - the effort she'd had to put in to be better than the men, the long hours, the sabotage attempts, the _crap_ - would be for nothing.

He hadn't known how to argue with that. He just... let her go.

In the last six months, he'd done his best to bounce back. Parties, galas, charity benefits, and a different date for each one. He reverted to type - selected his usual brand of brainless bimbo. They were more than happy to be the focus of his attentions, to worm their way into his bed. And most of the time, he was fine. He went on as though everything was normal, as though he'd never dated a cop who ate her own weight in pizza and didn't mind taking him down a peg or two.

But she still wouldn't get out of his head.

And now, he was going stir-crazy in the woods, and all he seemed to be able to do was think about her; remember her smile, her soft skin, the flush of surprise and exhilaration on her face when he slipped his hand into...

_No_, Walter, he told himself sternly. Get the libido in check before you rupture something.

Boredom. That was it. Sheer, relentless boredom. He'd had no real intellectual stimulation for days. He could plot mergers and acquisitions all he liked, but he couldn't _do_ anything about them. And while he was confident that his organisation was in good hands during his absence, it struck him that the longer he was away, the less he trusted certain employees. As far as they were all concerned, he was on vacation, but if this continued longer than planned…

He needed to get the hell out of here. He wanted to see _people_, to eat food that didn't come in a can or get burnt when he tried to bake it, to talk to someone other than Heckman's agents, to experience the sights and sounds and smells of _somewhere else_.

'No,' they continued to tell him. 'Not yet.'

And one day, eventually, he got tired of waiting.

* * *

They hadn't allowed him to have a car, but he'd noticed through the window in his office that, about half a mile away, there was a main road with frequent buses.

He hadn't been on a bus in years. It was all so anonymous. He shared the bus with about three other passengers, none of whom gave a damn about him. How _awesome._

At least, it was until he put his hand on the seat and encountered a piece of wet gum. Then he decided it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He spent the rest of the journey holding his hand as far away from his body as he could anatomically achieve.

Kernville was small, but that didn't matter to Walter. They were used to unfamiliar faces in the stores and restaurants because of the nearby campsites; he didn't sense any unusual scrutiny when he sat down in the diner and ordered a burger with fries.

The waitress batted her eyelashes at him and flirted clumsily. His libido was rearing its head again, and for a brief moment or two, he contemplated asking her out. But he knew it would be a mistake. It would end badly, just as every other 'relationship' he'd had in the last six months had crashed and burned within a very short space of time.

He knew exactly whose fault that was. Damn her for ruining every other woman on the planet for him.

He wondered what she was doing right now. He glanced at his watch – it was nearly one o'clock. She probably hadn't gone for lunch, he decided. He remembered having a nightmare of a time prising her away from her desk for a lunch date one day. Eventually they'd compromised on walking to the deli, getting subs, and bringing them back to eat in her office.

He grinned involuntarily. He'd wheedled his way into staying with her for the rest of the afternoon, lying on her couch and dozing. Although she'd been typing up a couple of reports, she'd still talked to him, albeit distractedly. Sometimes she would break off mid-sentence and he would know that she was deep in thought about her work. What surprised him was her ability to pick up exactly where she left off – even half an hour later.

The burger was greasy and hot, and he devoured it like a sacrifice. The waitress had been patrolling his corner of the diner for the last twenty minutes, trying to catch his eye, and when he flagged her down she had a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

Of course, it faded when he briskly ordered a large ice cream sundae, extra whipped cream, extra hot fudge sauce.

When all the food was gone, and his belly was groaning, he heaved himself out of his seat and went for a walk about town. The sun was bright and hot; there was a large group of kids laughing and screaming in the park, playing near the fountain, splashing each other. Summer camp kids, maybe.

There was a little grocery store hidden in the shade of the town hall. It was air-conditioned, and he sighed with relief as the cool air hit his face as he walked in. He hadn't done his own grocery shopping for a long time; it was like an art form, he discovered. Look at food item. Like or dislike? If like, then consider brand, quality, price, etc. If any of these factors unacceptable, replace item on shelf. Consider different brand or forget altogether. Repeat until cart full.

He reached the freezer section and realised that he'd acquired more than he could physically transport back to his – _oh, crap_.

It was two-thirty. One of Heckman's agents usually came around two.

He was torn for a moment. Heckman had been very clear on the dangers of leaving the secluded house. He'd also been very clear that if Walter left without authorisation – without a _bodyguard_, for crying out loud – that he would reconsider the idea of sending an agent to stay with him.

But Walter Mashburn hadn't taken orders from anybody in a long time. He wanted his freedom – he _deserved_ his freedom. It wasn't as if he'd wandered off down a dark alley – he was in a busy(ish) little town. There were people. It was fine. _It's just fine._ He repeated this in his head several times until he'd convinced himself.

He contemplated the freezer food for a while, but it was sure to melt before he got back to the house. The bus journey had taken nearly an hour, and who knew how long he'd have to wait for the next one?

He put some things back before he went to the register. The bill seemed modest for the sheer volume he'd bought, but he'd long ago lost any sense of what was 'normal' for other people. Frankly, any amount under a hundred bucks was a freakish anomaly as far as he was concerned. He paid in cash, juggling his bags on his way out of the store until he achieved equilibrium.

His first instinct was to go for the bus, but rebellion tugged at his brain, and he made an abrupt turn into the park, taking the scenic route around the lake. It was cooler in the shade, and he stopped to rest on a bench for a while. The group of kids had gone. On the other side of the lake he could see some teenagers throwing a Frisbee, yelling and laughing at each other. A family having a picnic on a blanket. A couple walking hand in hand, giving the Frisbee-players a wide berth. Another couple near the knot of trees, also on a blanket, draped over each other.

He liked being here, he decided. Here, he was totally anonymous. Nobody was looking for him, nobody wanted anything from him, nobody was harassing him by phone, or in person, wanting a statement or a signature or a meeting.

It was peaceful. Nice.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The sun was glinting through the canopy of trees overhead, and it was creating a dappled pattern on his eyelids.

He was just about to doze off when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

He jumped, and with a jolt of panic, opened his eyes to find Agent Moore glaring down at him. "Mr Mashburn," he said, through gritted teeth, "what the hell do you think you're playing at?"

* * *

Teresa Lisbon was having a good day. A really good day.

Her usual coffee place had been shut that morning. She'd had to detour across the city to get to her other 'pre-approved' coffee shop, only to find that they had a new trainee who got her order wrong. Still, caffeine was caffeine – she could live with it, she thought.

Mid-morning, she'd been summoned to see the Attorney General. He, like Bertram, enjoyed reminding her that she was replaceable, that there were plenty of people out there who would like a shot at her job, and that she was playing too close to the edge for his comfort, as far as Jane was concerned.

She knew this dance. Since Jane had been given his full-time contract, she and the AG averaged about three meetings a month. Jane didn't know about them; nobody did. She went upstairs often enough on other business, why should anybody give it a second thought?

In fact, she'd only ever told one person about her meetings with the AG – the same person whose photo she'd seen splashed across the front cover of '_Like, Hello?'_ on the AG's secretary's desk.

It had been a shock – a brief, heart-stopping moment, and she'd done a double-take involuntarily.

"Oh," said the secretary, oblivious, "he's cute, isn't he? Too bad he only dates supermodels." She'd turned the magazine so that she could look at it the right way up. "Miss USA 2011 –can't beat that, I guess. Although, _I_ heard she was caught fooling around with a judge right after the award ceremony…"

It wasn't the first time Lisbon had seen him with a girlfriend since they'd broken up. If, she thought, it could be considered a break-up, after only a few weeks.

What had she expected, really? For him to be broken-hearted, living a life of celibacy in her absence? Hardly. Walter Mashburn was a very attractive man who had no problem finding a date – or five. She had always known that he would move on and do exactly what he had done before.

And… she cared about him. A lot. She wanted him to be happy – to find happiness with the right woman.

Of course, whether Miss USA would prove to be Miss Right remained to be seen. A woman who believed that deodorant and a new hairstyle would be the key factor in improving the lives of the 'socially disadvantaged' was not, in Lisbon's eyes, a good match for Walter.

Not that she'd thought about it in any way. She certainly was not upset or hurt by the fact that Walter had clearly moved on so easily, and so quickly.

In fact, she was fine with it. Absolutely fine.

And now, her extremely good day was about to be made even better, because Agent Heckman from Personal Crimes was standing in her doorway, and he didn't look happy at all.

"Heckman," she greeted him, surprised at her own brightness. "Why don't you sit down before you fall down?"

He shut the door behind him, looking almost queasy. "Lisbon, how long have we known each other?"

"Five years," she supplied. They'd each been promoted to Senior Agent around the same time; the two of them used to meet up at the coffee cart outside and bitch about leadership. "Why?"

"You know I don't like to give up. I especially don't enjoy giving up so soon..."

"Spit it out, Heckman." She leaned forward, her brows knotting with concern. "Everything okay?"

He paused, deliberating for a moment or two. His hand was constantly fidgeting, moving from his temple to his mouth. Whatever it was, she figured it was really causing him trouble. "We've got this guy," he said eventually. "He's been getting threats. I mean, they started out mild, so he didn't report them, just tossed them on the pile with a bunch of other ones, apparently. But lately they're getting worse. Violent, to be specific. And now it's escalated to breaking and entering, petty theft and vandalism, and... assault."

She nodded. "Did you get Grayden to look at the threats?"

"Yeah, his team did a full profile, the works. He calls himself a 'concerned acquaintance', but Grayden says he's out for revenge - that's what we're looking at here. We're pursuing a few leads, but our guy has a whole bunch of enemies he's not even ashamed to admit to."

"Okay." She sat back, relaxing in her seat. "So how long do you want him for?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"Jane," she clarified. "You want to borrow him, that's fine. You know I'm gonna make you look at my PowerPoint presentation, right?"

"Oh, good lord, no..." He grimaced. "That's not what I'm talking about. Finding who's doing this is not the issue – it's the victim that's giving us the trouble."

She tried to process that one in her mind, and came up blank. "Sorry, what?"

Heckman sighed. "This isn't easy for me, Lisbon. For a number of reasons. Let me boil it down for you – when it comes to the suspects, we're all over it like a rash. This investigation is hot to trot. But for our guy's own safety, we made him lie low for a while, and now… he's going crazy. I'm talking cabin fever." He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and for the first time, Lisbon noticed the exhaustion that lined his face. "My agents have been checking on him – they kept telling me he seemed pretty frustrated, but I didn't think about it. And then yesterday he went AWOL. He was fine, but I don't mind telling you, Lisbon, I was close to crapping myself for a while there."

Lisbon sympathised. Heckman was a good guy, but he'd always preferred to play his cards close to his chest. Things must be bad if he'd been inspired to revisit their days of bitching and complaining.

She blew out a breath. "Sounds like this guy'd be better off in a CBI safe house, Heckman."

"Tell me about it!" He leaned forward. "But he won't go for it, Lisbon. And y – this guy, he's not the kind of guy you can really order around."

There was a silence. His words had had an incomplete feeling to them; he was looking at her expectantly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Heckman," she said slowly, "did you come here just to shoot the breeze or what?"

He hesitated nervously, but didn't drop her gaze. "Lisbon, I need your help with this guy."

She narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, because the Serious Crimes Unit is just a front for a secret babysitting club – what have you been smoking, Hec -?"

"It's Walter Mashburn," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a hurry.

Her breath froze in her throat. She was still and silent; paralysed in her seat.

"I wouldn't be asking this if we hadn't tried everything," he continued. "If we can't get a handle on him, he'll do something stupid. And then it's just a matter of time before this 'concerned acquaintance' tracks him down." He fixed her with the most earnest, desperate stare she'd ever seen. "But I think he'll listen to you."

She found her voice at last. "And what makes you think that?"

He laughed uneasily. "Come on, Lisbon – everyone around here knows you're like the 'crazy whisperer'. You've got that guy Jane on a leash, and Mashburn –"

"Yes?" she asked, a dangerous edge to her voice.

"Well…" He shrugged. "He respects you. He… likes you. He'd listen to you."

"You're wrong," she replied, tonelessly. "Mr Mashburn and I have no connection to each other. Sorry, Heckman, but I can't help you."

"Lisbon," Heckman said quietly. "_Please_."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I anxiously await your reviews with a fluttery heart and a trembling bowel! (Um, ew.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Black Rock Bound

**Author: **Avelynn Tame/ficcingwitch

**Disclaimer:** It pains me to say it, but I don't own anything to do with The Mentalist. If I did, I'd ensure that Lisbon had plenty more kickass moments, not to mention hot love interests.

**Summary: **Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. So when an enforced period of exile starts to drive him crazy, which of his former lovers is called upon to deal with him? That's right – the one with the gun.

**Author's Notes:** So, after I posted the last chapter I felt really guilty, because as well as crediting the always-awesome **B** as my friend and muse, I also need to mention some other amazing Mentalist fans from Twitter who provide me with daily amusement and insights into the show. Please join me in a toast to the **TM Gang** (I don't know what names you guys want me to use for you so I'll use this one for now). **Also**: thank you so much to the readers who reviewed/favourite-d, etc! Your support means so much to me – I really appreciate it!

* * *

_You're doing this for Heckman,_ she told herself, flexing her fingers around the steering wheel. _For poor Heckman, who will get an ulcer if Walter makes his life any more stressful. You're saving his stomach lining – you're doing something good. _

The car bounced heartily as she drove along the country road; the road surface was becoming rougher the further she went, and she was glad she'd used a CBI-issue vehicle. Her own little car wouldn't have coped so well.

It was quiet here, she noted. She hadn't seen another car for miles. On both sides of the roadway, she was surrounded by dense woodland on sharply rising ground. It was two in the afternoon, but the sky was dim – dark clouds were gathering overhead, and fat drops of rain had been plopping persistently onto her windshield for several minutes.

The weather seemed appropriate, given her mood.

She'd thought she would never see Walter Mashburn again. And now, only minutes from arriving at his house, she found herself dreading the meeting. She had no idea what to expect. Would he be glad to see her? Angry? Upset? Would she walk in on him with Miss USA 2011 and feel like an absolute fool?

She'd contemplated turning around more than once, but Heckman's words echoed in her mind: '_If we can't get a handle on him, he'll do something stupid… just a matter of time before this 'concerned acquaintance' tracks him down…'_

She was an officer of the law. This was not her case – and boy, was she glad about that – but she still had a duty as a public servant. All she had to do was be professional and do her job, exactly as she did every day.

Strangely encouraged by this concept, she focused on the road ahead. 'After 100 yards, turn left,' her SatNav announced. 'Then, you will have reached your destination.'

"Where I will be a civil, calm professional," Lisbon rejoined. "And that is all."

The driveway leading to Mashburn's house was a little steep and tortuous, but eventually the house swung into view. She couldn't help her sharp intake of breath; even with her own preference for the simple life, she had to admit he'd chosen a beautiful woodland retreat. It was exactly what she would have chosen for herself, in some parallel universe where that scenario was actually a possibility.

It was only a single storey building, which was a surprise. She squinted at it, mentally sizing up the dimensions, and decided that it was probably bigger than it appeared. It was stone-built – cobblestones, in fact, with delicate vines climbing the walls, some of them in bloom. She liked that. And big windows, too – she _really_ liked that. Her own house had small, pathetic windows that might as well have been boarded up for all the natural light they let in.

But it was the surroundings that really _made_ it, in her eyes. It was just… green, everywhere. Trees – Giant Sequoias, firs, pines – stretched up like sentries on guard, their foliage intertwining high above the house. The floor of the forest was rich with moss and wildflowers. It was a beautiful sight to behold. No wonder he had bought this place. Frankly, she couldn't understand why he was so determined to get away from it.

Speaking of which…

Her car came to a stop under a wooden lattice canopy at the side of the house. She turned off the engine but remained in the car for a few moments, psyching herself up.

When she got out of the car, the air was cool and clear. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and listening intently.

Silence.

No traffic noise.

No people noise.

Just silence, broken occasionally by the distant sound of birdsong and the whisper of the wind through the leaves.

Perfect.

She rang the bell at the front door, and waited. Her fingers played with the hem of her t-shirt, and she tapped her foot against the stone step.

Nothing. No voice on the intercom, no sound behind the door. She wondered if he'd seen her arrive – perhaps he was ignoring her. Then again, Walter Mashburn knew her pretty well; he would understand that if she'd driven all this way, she wouldn't leave until she'd at least seen him.

She rang again. And again, and knocked. Still nothing.

Annoyance started to give way to fear.

What if he was in trouble inside, or worse? Or maybe he'd taken off again – great. More donkey work for her.

She tried the door handle, and to her surprise – and anger – it opened without resistance. _Stupid, stupid man._ Was he _asking_ to be murdered? She closed it softly behind her, bolting it securely.

The door had opened directly into the house – no porch, no lobby – and she was standing in the middle of a hallway that ran for only a short distance before disappearing around corners to her left and right. It was light and airy inside; soft white walls sparsely decorated with art she knew nothing about. A breeze tickled her skin.

She withdrew her gun from its holster. The décor was not her concern, she reminded herself.

Eyeing up her two possible choices of direction, she hesitated, and chose to go left. Her boots were quiet against the ceramic floor tiles; her gaze was quick and sharp as adrenaline hummed in her veins.

When she rounded the corner, she began to fully understand the layout of the house.

Large picture windows lined the inside wall. Through them, she could see the rest of the house as it ran around a central courtyard. It was even prettier than she'd expected – mostly soft grass and sprawling flower beds, but the tranquil reflecting pool at the far end was the most eye-catching feature. A raised stone walkway sat above it; she could imagine herself sitting there, her feet dangling above the water, enjoying the peace and quiet.

The air against her skin brought her rapidly back to earth, and she shook her head, annoyed with herself for getting distracted. The gun felt suddenly heavy in her hand. She moved further down the hallway, aware of her sudden visibility through the windows – anyone in the courtyard, or on the other side of the house could quite easily see her.

Ahead on the left there were two doors next to each other. One opened onto a small bathroom; the other into what she assumed to be a guest bedroom – the bed was undisturbed, and there were no personal possessions in the room that she could see. She checked the wardrobes and under the bed, but the room was empty.

Her search proved fruitless. She made a full circuit of the house, eventually finding the source of the breeze – Walter's study took up the full width of the house, including the hallway. Anyone trying to get to the other side of the house would either have to go back they way they came, or pass through the study. In this case, both doors into the study were wedged open – and so were the sliding doors that looked out over the courtyard.

Here, she was able to partially fulfil her fantasy of sitting on the stone walkway above the reflecting pool – she stood there, looking out, but her nerves were wound tight and she found herself cursing Walter for causing her so much trouble.

She'd done a second loop by the time she found the other entrance to the house – a solid, sturdy wooden door set into the kitchen. It was a stark contrast to the cold, contemporary marble work surfaces and stainless steel appliances; the door was hidden behind a soft, thick wall tapestry woven with warm earth tones. She pulled the tapestry back gently, and pushed the door open.

She was glad of her boots – Heckman had advised her to wear them, and she was duly grateful. The rain had stopped by now, but the grass squelched underfoot. She inspected the ground for signs of… anything. A single set of tracks, for instance. Or blood.

She saw neither of those things, but her eyes caught the sight of a makeshift path through the trees a short distance away. The ground was well-trodden there, and she figured it was as good a place to start as any.

The stillness of the forest almost carried her mind away as she walked. It was easy – so _easy_ to forget about her current problem and just _walk_, her mind wandering to other subjects. Food, for example. What she might have for dinner when she eventually got home.

Or the A.G., and his insistence on reminding her of how flimsy her future could be.

Or the team, and how she had lied to them, telling them she'd been asked to go to an afternoon seminar at the last minute. "Cho, if anything comes up, you can handle it," she'd said – and that had been a genuine statement, as a matter of fact. Cho _could_ handle it – thank goodness for Cho.

Jane had looked sceptical, but his powers of deduction had their limits – he might suspect her of lying, but there was no way he could take 'I'm going to an afternoon seminar' and spin it into 'I'm going to track down Walter Mashburn in the woods'. He was good, but not that good.

The sound of trickling had been faint at first, but it was getting louder now. Unconsciously, she altered her route to follow the sound, stepping off the well-worn track and into the undergrowth.

As she came through a thicket of trees, she saw it right in front of her – a large pond, with beautifully clear water. Jagged boulders surrounded it, higher on the far side where it was sheltered by a rocky outcrop that jutted out from the steep hill.

The day was warm, and although the air up here was cooler than it had been on the journey, she'd worked up a bit of a sweat on her trek through the forest. Right now, she would like nothing better than to strip off her clothes and sink into that cool, clean water.

Of course, she wasn't an exhibitionist. She would just have to wait to take a bath at home, like a normal pers –

_Holy crap._

She hadn't seen him at first – he must have been hidden by the rocks on this side of the pond.

But pulling himself out of the pond, stepping onto the loose gravel that lay on the ground, was Walter Mashburn.

And he was stark naked.

* * *

She squeaked.

She couldn't help it. It was the only sound that seemed to want to come out.

Unfortunately, it was a sound that attracted the attention of the person she was no longer sure she wanted to see.

He stared at her, mouth open, and didn't make a move to cover himself.

"Um," she managed eventually, directing her gaze upwards, "hi. Long time no see."

_Awesome,_ she thought. _Very professional. And the blush on your face is _really_ helping. _

"What the heck are you doing here?" he asked, one hand grasping blindly for the clothing that sat on a nearby rock. "I mean…"

She sighed. She knew exactly what he meant. She was just a cop, now, as far as he was concerned – just another CBI agent coming to lecture him.

"I'd like to talk to you," she said, carefully looking anywhere but… _there_. "It might be easier inside."

He was silent for a moment, and when she looked up at him again, he was almost fully dressed – the fabric of his jeans clung awkwardly to his legs, and the belt straps hung loose, unfastened; he hadn't bothered buttoning his shirt either, but the water was beginning to seep through the material from his wet skin. His lips were twitching as he watched her watching him, but whether with amusement or frustration, she couldn't tell.

"Looking a little warm there," he remarked, as he approached her. "You can take a swim if you like. The water's great."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll pass, thanks," she said coolly.

He shrugged. "Okay, your choice."

As they walked back to the house in silence, she studied him surreptitiously. He was only a little tanned. She was sure his arms hadn't been so toned the last time she'd seen him. A brief image of him pumping iron sprang to mind, and she bit her lip. Sometimes, she really wondered if she had a warped mind.

She glanced up at his face. His expression was impassive, but she could see the faint lines caused by stress and frustration. She could also see something else very clearly – couldn't miss it, in fact.

"The beard is new," she said brightly.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "So what?" he asked brusquely.

"Suits you," she replied honestly. And it did – it was a pleasantly smooth scattering of soft-looking dark fuzz across his chin and upper lip, meeting on either side of his mouth to stretch up to the angle of his jaw. She had an urge to reach out and touch it, but she curled her hands into fists instead.

He huffed quietly and carried on walking.

The house seemed to take on a different character once they were both inside. She started to see the evidence of his daily behaviour, his little habits – the coffee mug waiting in the sink to be washed. The apple core lying discarded next to the folded newspaper on the table. The towel he obviously kept near the door for occasions when he came back wet from the pond.

The towel he was currently using to dry himself off, having _stripped off his shirt_… _oh, crap,_ she thought, turning sharply away and pretending to be interested in a piece of paper that was framed on the wall.

_Remember – professional and civil. Professional and civil._

"It's the original design for the house," he said behind her, startling her. "The architect left it behind, and I had it framed."

"Huh?" She looked up at him blankly.

"That… thing you're staring at." His lips twitched again. "You know – on the wall?"

"Oh." She tried mentally slapping herself. "I was… lost in thought."

"Clearly." He rubbed the towel vigorously over his dark hair, leaving it damp and spiky. He stared down at her, apparently unbothered by the fact that he was half-naked and standing very close to her.

Then again, she thought, why would he be bothered?

"Heckman explained the situation," she said abruptly, taking a step back. Time to get some distance – both physical and otherwise. "Including this 'concerned acquaintance' guy. How are you holding up?"

A dark look passed across his face. "Well, let's see," he said testily. "A maniac has been harassing me for several months and is now trying to graduate to killing me. As a result, I'm stuck out here in the woods, so far from civilisation I can hear a moth sneeze, and the second I try to have a little fun, the CBI brings its iron fist down on me in the form of…" he gestured towards her, "Teresa Lisbon. How do you think I'm holding up?"

She couldn't ignore the little sting of hurt she felt hearing his description of her. An iron fist – to crush him, perhaps? Crush his spirit, at least.

Still, she held her head high. Who cared what Walter Mashburn thought? Certainly not her. "Heckman doesn't want this guy to find you. You're not made for long-term isolation, Walter – I know that. I get it. But if you go out, you put yourself at risk. Heckman's allowed you a lot of slack as it is; if you'd been anyone else you'd have been put in a safe house. But instead, you get to be… here. All he's asking you to do is have a little more patience."

Walter was staring at her, his dark eyes fixed steadily on her face. "And you?" he asked quietly. "What do you want me to do?"

She swallowed roughly. "I want you to do whatever keeps you alive, Walter. Personally, if it had been me, I'd have stuck you in the safe house and locked the door. But you didn't come to me, did you?" She didn't bother to hide the note of accusation in her voice. Let him think what he wanted. "You went to Heckman, who's… a good guy, Walter. Just listen to him, and you'll be okay."

His mouth opened and closed several times. "Te –"

"Just…" she held up her hands, taking a further step back. "Just tell me you'll stay here. You can lie to me if you want, it's your decision. Just tell me what I need to hear so I can go back and tell Heckman I tried."

Walter folded his arms across his chest. "You drove all this way to hear me lie to you?"

She didn't really know what to say to that. She was saved by the sound of her cell phone chirping insistently in her pocket. She dug it out and cursed when she saw the name on the screen. "Jane," she muttered. "I told him I was going to a seminar. I bet he thinks he can catch me in a lie if I answer." She stabbed the 'ignore' button, but before she could put it back in her pocket, Walter had swiped the phone from her hand.

"Hey!" she said indignantly. "What do you think -?"

"I can't get the internet out here," he told her, stepping out of her reach. "I just want to look up a few things, that's all."

She glared at him and followed his path, attempting to retrieve the phone. "So get broadband."

He held it up high over his head and kept walking. "Well, I was _planning_ to, but when I first bought this place they were barely getting dial-up in the nearest towns. And now Heckman is saying I can't do anything to draw attention, like have broadband installed, or cable or whatever."

"Oh, you poor man," she mocked, stalking him through the hall and into the living room. "Whatever will you do?"

"_Exactly._" He turned on her suddenly, and she nearly slammed into his chest. Her pulse raced as he stared at her intently. "Exactly – what should I do? I am going _crazy_ out here, Teresa. I'm bored, and I –I'm on my own." There was a glimmer of something indecipherable in his eyes. His hands, still clutching her phone, twitched uselessly. "So really – tell me what I should do."

Sympathy and guilt twisted together in her chest. She sighed quietly and slipped a hand over his, her fingers tracing his knuckles. "Just as well I came prepared, Walter."

* * *

One of the things Walter had talked to her about – _really_ talked about, once they'd moved past his default position of being flirtatious and evasive with every breath – was his education.

He'd been a terrible nuisance as a child, she understood, hence his stint at reform school. "Everybody despaired of me," he'd told her once. "They said I had the most phenomenal brain, but no clue how to use it."

Obviously, he'd figured out how to use it eventually, because he'd gone on to excel at mathematics and physics – his two favourite subjects. Mechanical engineering had been his big thing – he'd studied it at college on a full scholarship – but his professors had sucked the fun out of it by constantly pressuring him to pursue an academic career in teaching and research.

Walter Mashburn liked what he liked, and he didn't appreciate other people coming along and telling him _how_ to like it. So he'd taken the situation in hand… and done his MBA. It had made a lot of sense at the time – he liked to compete, and he competed to win. In business, he could do that on a 24/7 basis.

"You know what I found?" he'd said to her. "People kind of… gravitated to me. I don't know what they were seeing back then – I mean, I didn't feel like anybody at all back then. I didn't really care what anybody thought, I just wanted to do what _I_ wanted to do, you know? Maybe that was it. But anyway, it was like they had some idea that I was going to be successful, even before I knew. And then I started Mashburn Avionics and they were all over me."

Weapons systems had been a lucrative option; he'd found a gap in the market, and before he could blink he'd snapped up three different defence contracts.

But years later, he'd told her, it was still engineering that made his fingers itch and his heart sing. He liked the little pieces – he liked to break things apart and put them back together. He wasn't afraid of rebuilding differently if he thought he could improve the final product.

She'd always remembered that.

She'd remembered it as she was about to make the insanely long journey to his woodland paradise, and she'd stopped at the biggest toy store she could find.

Walter helped her carry the bags inside from her car. He was pawing at them even as he juggled three or four through the doorway, and she made a disapproving noise. "Be patient," she scolded. "They're not going anywhere."

Even so, as soon as they'd reached the living room, he was emptying out the bags on the soft rug, making little strangled sounds in the back of his throat.

"This is – _what_?" he was muttering. "You got me… machined kits?" His voice was tremulous, excited. He reminded her of a kid on Christmas morning. The way he sat cross-legged on the rug and grappled with the boxes cemented the image in her mind. "A Broadbent X25 mill engine? Seriva Boltspeed steam locomotive?" He stared at her. "These are – I haven't seen one of these in _years_."

She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but not quite hitting it. "Yeah, well… they're more widely available now, I guess. I don't know, they just seemed like your kind of thing."

"My kind of thing?" he repeated, incredulous. "Are you _kidding_? I used to collect these when I was in college. My roommate thought I'd lost it."

She snorted, lowering herself to the floor and sitting with her back against the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. "Yeah, the guy at the cash register looked like he thought I was the world's biggest nerd."

His eyes dipped to the floor as he made a noise of derision. "Hardly seems likely."

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "What, I don't look smart enough to do one of these things?" She set her jaw. "Maybe I'm not an engineering genius like you, but I can flatpack. I do DIY. I'm just as capable –"

"Teresa." His voice was dry. "I _meant_ that there's no way he thought someone as hot as you could be a machined kit nerd."

Without warning, her face flushed bright red and she looked away, pretending to organise the remaining boxes that lay on the floor. "Uh… well, thanks, I guess."

She wasn't really accustomed to compliments, especially not the massively unsubtle ones that Walter tended to come out with. On the handful of dates they'd had, he'd been excellent at making her blush; he tended to speak his mind. He could not be shamed.

Secretly, she'd kind of liked that about him. Of course, she'd still smacked his arm every time he'd stared salaciously at her legs or… other parts.

By the time she dragged her gaze up off the floor, Walter had a little amused smirk playing about his face as he peeled the tape away from one end of the mill engine box. "How's Patrick?" he asked. "And everyone else, for that matter."

"They're all fine," she replied vaguely, slightly mesmerised by the careful movements of his fingers as he extracted the individual parts from the box. "You know, business as usual. Jane is… well, Jane."

There was a slightly unpleasant note to his voice when he said, "As expected. He didn't improve after we split up?"

She was stunned into silence by two things – first, by his baffling remark, and second, by the fact that he seemed to have interpreted what had happened between them as 'splitting up'.

She'd always assumed she was the only one who thought of it that way. In her mind, he'd seen it only as a few dates and nothing more. Certainly nothing _ongoing_. And yet he'd used the term 'split up'…

She shook her head and pulled herself back to the present. "What do you mean?"

He glanced at her briefly. "Well, you know what he was like."

She frowned, confused. "Uh… no, I don't."

He sighed, and sat up straight, pushing the box and its pieces to one side. "Come on, Teresa – he made it pretty clear he didn't think much of us dating."

She racked her brains, trying to remember what Jane had been like during those brief weeks. To her memory, he'd been exactly the same as he always was – reckless, charming, light-hearted and occasionally mean-spirited. But she supposed she hadn't really been paying a lot of attention to him at the time.

In fact, _that_ struck a chord. She remembered one afternoon in the bullpen – it had been quiet; Van Pelt and Cho were out trying to track down a suspect who lived on a boat and had apparently disappeared off down the Sacramento River in the direction of San Francisco. Last she'd heard, Van Pelt had commandeered a speed boat and was gaining on the guy.

Lisbon herself was sitting at Van Pelt's desk waiting for Cho to call, or for Rigsby to contact her about his search for the murder weapon. She and Jane were exchanging idle pleasantries when he'd said, "This is nice. It's so hard to get your attention these days, Lisbon… Anyone would think you and Mashburn were serious about each other."

She'd blinked, startled. "Jane, what are you –?"

But she'd had a call on her cell from Cho, sounding practically gleeful as he described the way Van Pelt cut off their suspect in her speed boat, causing him to crash into a buoy. She'd leapt from her boat to his and arrested him while he was wrestling with his lifejacket.

Lisbon had been almost overcome with pride; really, she thought, it was not that surprising that she'd forgotten what Jane had said.

Now, six months later, sitting on a rug with an attractive man who'd seen her naked, it was a _really_ odd sensation to be reliving that memory. Clearly, at the time, Walter had been able to notice something she hadn't. And apparently it was something he'd remembered – and thought about – for quite a while.

"I see," she said slowly, contemplatively. "I guess that must have had an impact on you."

It was his turn to look confused. "How so?"

Yes. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Walter liked Jane, had been friendly with him. He respected Jane's opinion, in fact. Maybe, if he'd thought Jane disapproved of their relationship, he had thought about ending it himself.

"Well," she replied, "you didn't argue too hard when I suggested we split up."

He stared at her in disbelief. "_What_? I – you – wh – _suggested_?"

She blinked, slightly taken aback by his choice of focus.

"Are you saying," he continued, "that there was some kind of… element of choice in it for me? That if I'd – I don't know – reached some kind of magic threshold of protest, you'd have changed your mind?"

She gaped at him, outraged. "That is _not_ what I'm saying at all – where do you get this crap? 'Magic threshold of protest'? You know what, you want to discuss the hows and whys of you and me splitting up, then _fine_ – let's discuss it." She took a deep breath, steeling herself to say all the things she'd been turning over in her mind since she'd last seen him. "You _knew_ about the privacy issue. You knew how afraid I was that my career could go down the pan, but you never really seemed to care about us being followed by paparazzi. You didn't care what got printed about us. And when I finally said that I wondered if we should split up, you were so… resigned to it. Like you'd had the same thoughts as me – like you'd been planning to say the same thing _to_ me!"

"That is…" He seemed to be grasping for words. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Resigned? That is not even remotely how I felt. I was – I was _so_ frustrated and angry with you –"

"Oh, right," she scoffed. "So frustrated and angry that you felt compelled to resume normal Walter Mashburn behaviour and sleep with Miss USA 2011 and every other supermodel who crossed your path. Yeah, you seemed real heartbroken."

He blanched. "How do you know about that?"

She rolled her eyes. "There are these things… I think they're called newspapers."

"No, they're called tabloids, and _you_ don't read them."

"I don't _have_ to – your face is on the cover practically every week. Why, what did you think?" She tried to inject a note of scorn into her voice – tried not to sound so much like a jealous ex-girlfriend – and ended up with words that sounded strained and upset. "That I buy them just to keep track of your sex life? I don't want to hear about anything of the kind!"

"Fine by me – I don't want to hear anything about you, either!" he snapped loudly. "Although I'm pretty sure you're in a sexless marriage with the CBI anyway…"

"Okay, I've heard enough. Nice seeing you again, Walter." She pushed herself up from the floor, grabbing the jacket she'd so foolishly removed after bringing the bags in from the car. "Have a nice life."

She stalked out of the room, followed the hallway back to the front door and slammed it behind her as she left the house. She got back into her car; the rain had started again, heavier this time, so she flipped the wipers on as she turned the car around, speeding off down the driveway as fast as she could.

Not once did she look back.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **A quick note about this chapter – the pond in which Walter was swimming inspired the story title. After writing this fic, I came across the Edgar Allan Poe poem mentioned in the last chapter. That verse seemed to describe the pond and its surroundings so perfectly that I had to use it for the title.

In addition, I promised I'd point out any references to Smoke Screen – well, Mashburn's beard is just such a reference. In fact, this entire story can trace its origin back to the point when **B** and I were going, 'ASHDHFHKASDSA!' over Currie Graham's beard, and said, 'Wouldn't it be cool if, next time Mash guest-starred on The Mentalist, he had a beard?'

And so, for the majority of the creative process, this story was known as 'Mashbeard'. I am not even ashamed.

Final note: please review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Black Rock Bound

**Author: **Avelynn Tame/ficcingwitch

**Disclaimer:** It pains me to say it, but I don't own anything to do with The Mentalist. If I did, I'd ensure that Lisbon had plenty more kickass moments, not to mention hot love interests.

**Summary: **Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. So when an enforced period of exile starts to drive him crazy, which of his former lovers is called upon to deal with him? That's right – the one with the gun.

**Author's Notes:** First – **thank you** to everybody who has reviewed! You guys make me deliriously happy (in fact I tend to make little strangled excited noises when I get a new review in my inbox. Other people think I'm choking). Second – a big, massive shout-out to **B, C **and my latest partner in crime, **L**. You are pure awesome in human form. One day I shall capture you, bottle you and sell you.

Happy reading!

* * *

Walter had watched Teresa Lisbon walk out of his life three times. The first time, it had been with a sly smile that came from a satisfying night together. Whether she realised it or not, he'd always intended to pursue her when he came back from Europe – so really, he hadn't counted it as 'goodbye', but instead, 'see you soon'.

The second time, he'd known she intended it to be permanent. He hadn't fought her. Hadn't argued or questioned her. Had just accepted her decision, because he didn't know how to counter what she'd said. It had been as amicable as he could have hoped, but he knew she wouldn't change her mind.

This time… she'd turned her back on him in anger.

He couldn't accept that. No way was she going to walk out of here still carrying all those assumptions she'd been making for six months. No _way_ was she going to leave thinking he was in the wrong, thinking _she_ was in the right…

He wouldn't accept that. No way.

He clambered awkwardly to his feet, following the path she'd taken through the house. He flung the front door open. "Teresa, wait –"

The taillights of her car were just disappearing from view where his driveway curved out of sight.

He swore violently. He wouldn't catch up to her even if he were an Olympic sprinter, and she sure as hell wasn't going to come back.

Back inside the house, the sight of the machined kits waiting for him in the living room failed to inspire the same excitement as before. On the contrary, they created an uncomfortable churning sensation in his stomach.

Damn it, he did _not_ feel guilty. "I do not feel guilty," he whispered to himself as he walked out of the room.

He glanced at his watch – it was too early for dinner, and he didn't feel hungry anyway. Standing in the hallway, he had a perfect view of the courtyard and its reflecting pool – and the rain, getting progressively heavier.

He had a sudden urge to sit and be morose. Hell, it wasn't like anyone was around to stop him.

So he made his way to the study, where the sliding doors were still open. He picked up the blanket he kept in a desk drawer for this specific purpose, and laid it out flat on the stone walkway. Despite the rain, the air was warm, and he was sheltered by the eaves of the house; he settled quite comfortably on his back and closed his eyes. The gentle sound of the rain pattering against the roof and splashing into the reflection pool was soothing.

Teresa crept back into his thoughts by stealth. He sighed, stretching an arm out behind his head. He'd said some stupid things… things he ought to apologise for. As soon as Heckman gave him the all-clear, he'd head straight for Sacramento to make peace.

The act of making this resolution calmed some of the churning in his stomach. As for the rest…

A small grin tugged at his lips.

God, that woman was fearsomely beautiful. Her dark hair flying around her face, those green eyes full of strength and fury…. The colour that blossomed across her cheeks when she was embarrassed – such as when she'd stumbled across him totally naked in the forest.

He was not ashamed to admit that she'd awoken the libido he'd been trying to calm for days. He _was_ ashamed to say that he was having a lot of trouble getting it to go back to sleep again.

Yet another reason to lie down quietly for a while.

He stayed there for a long time – more than an hour, at least – occasionally drifting off into a light doze. The rain continued to fall; eventually a faint chill began to seep through to his bones. He shivered, sleepily folding his arms across his chest.

Someone cleared their throat quietly.

Panic gripped his heart. His eyes snapped open, and his breath caught in his throat.

For a few seconds, he thought he was hallucinating. But no matter how hard he blinked, the picture remained the same. Standing in front of him, soaking wet, water dripping from her hair and fingertips, was Teresa Lisbon.

* * *

Her problems had started about two miles along the main road. (Actually, if she were honest, her problems had _truly_ begun about eighteen months ago when an unfortunate young woman had been found dead in the trunk of a car in Marin County.)

The rain was getting progressively heavier. Her wipers were on full speed, but visibility was poor and she was practically crawling along the road. Now was the time to be grateful for how isolated she was out here – the last thing she felt like dealing with was some asshole tailgating her all the way back to the freeway.

Without warning, there was a loud _bang_ from underneath her; she jerked in her seat, gripping the wheel, but the car felt unsteady and out of control.

_Damn it all to hell._

She pulled over, flipping on the hazards. Even as she was getting out of the car, it was obvious where the problem lay – her front left tire had blown.

"Crap," she muttered. Her hair was already damp, water trickling down the back of her neck, soaking into her jeans. She felt in her pocket for her phone to call AAA… and found nothing. "_Crap_," she repeated urgently, diving back into the car and rifling through the glove box, groping around on the floor.

No phone.

Where the _hell_ - ?

Oh.

She smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. "You idiot," she grumbled to herself.

Her phone was, of course, exactly where she'd left it – in Walter Mashburn's house. He had taken it so neatly from her, but she hadn't remembered to reclaim it before she stormed out.

She shook her head as she recalled what he'd wanted to use it for. He was probably having the time of his life surfing the net – maybe even e-mailing whichever girlfriend he'd been forced to abandon. Hell, for all she knew, he'd summoned Miss USA 2011 to get her tiny backside and perky boobs over to Chez Mashburn for some –

"Oh, get over it," she told herself scornfully. Who cared if he had? Not her!

She trudged around the car to the trunk, but she already knew what she'd find inside – a spare, yes. But no tools to actually change the tire. She'd used this car before, and each time had submitted a Fault Report to complain about the lack of kit. Nobody had listened, and now – _now_ of all times – she was paying the price.

She considered her situation – stranded by the roadside. No phone to call for help. No chance of passing traffic. And no way of knowing whether there was another house or office or anything within the next few miles.

She heaved a painful sigh, already resigned to the most sensible course of action. She slammed her car door shut and locked it; the rain continued to fall, slowly but surely soaking her to the bone as she began the long and humiliating trek back to Walter's house.

* * *

This was probably the closest he could get, Walter realised, to saving a damsel in distress. The rest of the time _he_ seemed to be playing the part of the damsel, which was a little disturbing, not to mention demeaning.

Still, he knew where his strengths lay, and fending off villains was not one of them. (At least, not unless the villains were his corporate enemies – in which case, bring it on.)

Teresa was in his bathroom, taking a shower.

She hadn't said much after arriving – just mumbled something about a tire blowout and him being a thieving scumbag. Then she'd peeled her sopping wet jacket off, and he'd immediately had to avert his eyes and hold his hands firmly at his sides.

He'd seen a few wet t-shirt contests in his lifetime. As an eligible bachelor living in California, he was often asked to judge that kind of thing – usually by some young hopefuls who thought they could mesmerise him with their breasts alone.

And at the moment, he was feeling pretty mesmerised alright. 'Struck dumb' might have been a more accurate term. Turned out Teresa Lisbon could have shown those young hopefuls a thing or two about wet t-shirt contests.

Actually, right now he'd settle for her just showing _him_ a thing or two…

Sending her off to the bathroom had been more of an act of self-preservation, if he were truthful. Still, she'd seemed grateful, and it gave him some time to gather his thoughts and choose carefully the words he wanted to say.

He wasn't going to waste this opportunity. She most likely intended to collect her phone, wait until the rain had stopped, and leave – but not if he could help it. In any case, it was nearly six, so he was pretty sure he could talk her into staying for dinner. He had a decent chicken kiev recipe he'd been working on…

He was halfway through chopping the garlic cloves with a slightly unsuitable knife when he heard a noise in the kitchen doorway. He looked up – and nearly sliced his own finger down the middle.

His shirt was far too large on her petite frame; it hung to mid-thigh, and the collar was wide open, exposing the soft, pale skin he remembered so well. She'd rolled the sleeves up, but they dwarfed the slender arms that were folded across her chest. Her dark hair clung to her damp skin, and her startling green eyes stood out clearly against her freshly-scrubbed face.

He swallowed roughly, and returned his gaze to the chopping board. "Uh… shower was good? I mean – did you have a good shower?"

"Yeah, I did," she said quietly, coming further into the kitchen and sitting down at the table. "Thanks. Do you, uh, want any help over there?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's nearly ready to go in the oven." That was a lie, but he didn't want her standing any closer to him than necessary. "Uh, your phone's on the table," he told her. "Never did go on the internet in the end; maybe it's better if I don't know what I'm missing."

To his surprise, she held it out to him. "For what it's worth, I don't think you've missed much in one week. But you can still check, if you like." She gave him a sympathetic look. "Pretty sure Miss USA will still be waiting for you, if that's what's on your mind."

He clicked his tongue audibly with annoyance. "Do you realise you've given Miss USA more thought than _I_ have recently? Look, I – it was one date, and that date happened to be the People's Choice Awards, so of _course_ they blasted it all over the tabloids like it was a big deal. But you're acting like I'm in love with her or something."

"No, I'm not," she protested indignantly. "But – Look, I want you to be happy, Walter, is that so hard to understand?"

He took a deep breath. Hadn't he wanted to discuss this himself? To apologise and put things right?

He returned his attention to the food. His hands had carried on mixing the ingredients while he was distracted, so he picked up a chicken breast and began stuffing it.

He could do this. He could have a serious conversation about relationships.

Except – he'd compulsively avoided that kind of thing for the last six years. Even his failed marriages – he couldn't remember once talking to his ex-wives about whatever the hell was going wrong. So much easier to file for divorce and have these silly arguments through his legal staff.

Even Teresa. Even that day she'd sat down with him with that solemn, regretful look on her face and said the words he hadn't expected or wanted to hear. His impulse had been to get out of there – to do whatever was necessary to avoid the kind of serious discussion he knew was coming.

He remembered his own response with a faint sense of nausea. "If that's what you want," he'd said.

He closed his eyes briefly, his fingers clenching around the chicken. What a colossally stupid thing to have said.

Even worse, however, was what he now remembered with almost supernatural clarity – her lack of response. She had been quiet for a few moments. He hadn't even made eye contact. Then she'd sighed, and said, "Right. I see. Okay, well… that's it, I guess."

He remembered the way his stomach had plummeted to the floor. But even then – _even then!_ – he hadn't spoken up. She had left. And seriously, what did he expect?

He rolled the chicken in the flour, haphazardly dipped it into the egg, and attempted to cover it in breadcrumbs. Some didn't stick. He didn't really care anymore – just tossed them in the dish and put it in the oven.

When he turned around after washing his hands in the sink, aware that he'd been silent for too long, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

She was standing right in front of him, leaning against the kitchen counter. She chewed on her lower lip, looking deeply uncomfortable. "Walter," she began hesitantly. "I… There were some things I shouldn't have said before. About –" she coloured abruptly, "about your love life. And I – I'm sorry for that."

He blinked, startled. That was probably one of the last things he'd expected her to say. Maybe this whole 'serious relationship talk' concept wasn't so bad after all.

"I was being an idiot before," he said, the words spilling easily from his mouth. "What I said – I didn't really mean it. And I'm sorry."

She smiled briefly. "It's okay. You know what, I _am_ in a sexless marriage with my job. And you're not exactly the first person to point that out, so…" She shrugged. "I don't know. That's just the way my life is." She cleared her throat loudly. "Okay, different subject. So – your beard."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go…" He was grateful that she'd changed the subject, but the beard was a slightly sensitive issue for him.

"What?"

"I knew this would come up. What, I can't have a beard? I have to be clean-shaven at all times? It's not like anybody can see me, and I've got other things on my mind right now, so just… let me have my beard, okay?"

Her shoulders sagged, and she stared at him. Exasperation sharpened her words. "Walter, I wasn't going to attack you for it. I like the beard, it's just… surprising, that's all."

He paused to absorb this. His voice was cautious when he replied, "You like the beard?"

To his surprise, she stepped closer, and reached out a hand to trace her fingers over the stubble. His skin tingled underneath her fingertips, and he felt a shiver slide down his spine. She touched the hairs on his upper lip; he inhaled the scent of the body wash she'd used in the shower. _His_ body wash.

She gave him a wistful smile. "Yeah, I like the beard."

She started to pull her hand away. Without thinking, he grabbed her firmly by the wrist.

Patrick had taught him this little trick; he could feel her pulse drumming hard and fast against her skin. So, she was either scared or aroused.

Given that this was Teresa Lisbon, who faced dangerous criminals every week and could drop-kick him all the way back to Sacramento even if blindfolded and injured, 'fear' didn't seem all that likely.

As if to push him even further along this train of thought, her eyes dipped to his mouth and then snapped back up again.

_Well, well, well…_ He filed that information away for later.

"Any chance I can have my hand back soon, Walter?" she asked coolly.

He let go of her wrist with a casual smile. "Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and aiming for vaguely self-conscious body language. "I don't know what I was thinking…"

She was already putting space between them, eyeing him warily. "Okay… Listen, I need to get going. If you can just point me in the direction of wherever you put my clothes –"

"Oh, I put them in the washer-dryer," he said innocently. "They won't be done for another hour at least. So you might as well stay for dinner."

She grunted, annoyed. "Walter, it's going to take me hours to get home –"

"That is true." He nodded, as though pondering this very problem. "It would actually make a lot more sense for you to stay the night."

She glared at him. "Right, so instead of getting home at midnight tonight, I get home at midday tomorrow? And then have to explain – somehow – that my seminar lasted throughout the night?"

He shrugged. "Just phone Heckman. I'm sure he can come up with something for you. Although, if you want my honest opinion, I think you shouldn't have lied in the first place."

A muscle twitched in her jaw. "Walter," she said slowly, "where is my gun?"

He grinned, turning it up to full wattage. "A safe place."

* * *

She was going to kill him.

Specifically, she was thinking about drowning him in that stupid tranquil reflecting pool of his.

Damn him, damn his smile, and damn his beard.

Oh, and the chicken kiev that smelled so good – damn that, too.

She had taken her phone out to the courtyard to call Heckman; the rain was still pitter-pattering softly against the roof, but the air was surprisingly warm against her bare skin. Surreptitiously, she had turned her head to smell Walter's shirt – fresh and clean and _male_, as she'd expected.

Heckman had actually sounded relieved on the phone. "I should have put an agent in that house with him from the beginning," he confessed. "I let him talk me out of it. But you being there, even if it's just for one night – it's a real help, Lisbon. I'm all kinds of grateful. And listen, the field office in Fresno is aware of the situation, so if you run into trouble…"

"Gotcha," she'd said. "About the SCU…"

Heckman snorted. "Your guy Jane was in my office earlier, digging for information. He's not buying this seminar thing, Lisbon. He thinks I've sent you off on some dangerous mission."

She grinned suddenly. "You know what? Let him keep thinking that. It's good for him to be wrong once in a while. But, uh, tell Cho, will you? Someone needs to be in the loop."

"No problem, Lisbon. See you tomorrow."

A combination of her beautiful surroundings and the act of making the phone call had calmed her down a bit. She was almost tempted to sit down on Walter's vacated blanket and do exactly what she'd wanted to do when she'd first arrived – dangle her toes into the reflecting pool.

"Teresa! Grub's up!"

As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly; she reluctantly left the reflecting pool behind and padded back to the kitchen in socks she'd stolen from Walter's bedroom. They were too big for her, but she didn't care.

In the kitchen, Walter eyed the socks but said nothing. He'd boiled some plain vegetables to have with the chicken, and served it up with a glass of water. "Not exactly haute cuisine," he said, sitting down across from her at the table, "but I think you'll like it."

Oh, she did. "This is – mmm," she mumbled, her mouth full, "delicious." Garlic butter slid down her chin; she swiped at it with her hand, embarrassed. She stuck her index finger in her mouth to remove the large blob she'd caught with it.

When she looked up again, Walter was brutally hacking up his chicken into little bits. "Geez, Walter. You worried it's not quite dead or something?" She grinned.

He didn't quite meet her eyes when he said, "Not exactly."

They made small-talk over dinner. She didn't want to dangle the carrot of the outside world in front of him, but he clearly wanted to hear what had been going on. "Did the Kings slaughter the Suns on Tuesday or not? Who is the new Prime Minister in Canada? Did the BKS-MBC merger go ahead? Did the redhead from your office get back together with the other guy yet?"

And so on.

Luckily, she was more than aware of current affairs, and Walter had taught her how to decipher the business section of the newspaper on those few lazy mornings they'd spent in bed together. She still read it regularly, to her own chagrin.

Against his protests, she washed the dishes and stacked them on the drainer to dry. Occasionally, she had the feeling that Walter was staring at her, but every time she looked up, he was engrossed in the instructions for the mill engine.

The mill engine that she ultimately ended up helping him construct.

"No, no, no," he said, several hours later as they were sprawled on the living room floor. "Hold it right there. Yep, that's it."

"This is _really_ uncomfortable," she murmured in his ear. "Do you have to be so – _ow_!"

He'd elbowed her in the stomach while using the wrench. "Sorry," he muttered. "Look, it's really small, I can't help it if we're in close quarters. Why?" He sent her a sly grin. "Does lying on your belly watching me use tools and be all manly turn you on?"

She smacked him across the back of the head.

Somewhere after midnight, they put the half-done engine to one side, too tired to continue.

"Thanks for your help," he said genuinely, as they were standing outside the guest room. "Sorry it was more hazardous than expected."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, this whole trip has been more hazardous than expected." She caught sight of his slightly stung expression and continued hastily, "But… it's been good seeing you. I'm glad we had a chance to talk." Instinctively she lifted her arm and, realising that she had no idea what she'd been about to do with it, she patted him lamely on the shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm glad you're okay, too," he said, slightly urgently. "I mean, you have a dangerous job. Your… safety has crossed my mind since we split up."

"Yeah, well…" she grinned. "I'm a whole lot safer now I've got my gun back."

He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I wasn't holding it hostage."

"So you've said."

"Because it's true."

"Okay, Walter."

"Well… goodnight, I guess." He was hovering awkwardly.

She felt like she was on the most bizarre date ever – deposited at the door to the guest room by a man who would be sleeping a few rooms away. "Goodnight, Walter." She wasn't sure if she should kiss him on the cheek or something. In the end, she settled for another shoulder pat, and slipped inside the room.

To her surprise, she slept relatively well.

The house was wonderfully cool overnight; she didn't even need to crack a window. There was no sound outside except for the wind whistling through the trees and the occasional rush of light rain against the roof and windows. Secretly, as she was climbing into bed she hoped for a storm, knowing that this would be the perfect place to witness it – tall trees in dramatic silhouette against the lightning-white sky, deafening thunder right overhead.

Instead, it was disappointingly quiet. _Better luck next time,_ she mused, and abruptly crushed that thought before it could go any further. Ridiculous to think of a 'next time' – she and Walter were not suddenly going to be friends. She would not be coming to this house again.

Once or twice throughout the night, she woke for no apparent reason, and took these opportunities to do a quick lap of the house as a security precaution.

On one such lap, she finally had her chance to dangle her feet in the reflecting pool. It wasn't as satisfying as it might have been on a very hot day, but she liked it nonetheless – the pads of her toes skimming the cold surface, creating silent, gentle ripples.

On another 'security lap', she ran into Walter right outside his room.

She'd forgotten about his habit of sleeping only in his boxers.

Walter obviously hadn't expected to encounter _anybody_, and leapt backwards with a strangled yelp. His hand grasped for some kind of weapon and found only the wall.

"Walter, it's okay!" She caught his arm before he could hurt himself. "It's okay, it's just me."

"Holy crap, Teresa, don't do that to me."

She couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. "It's kind of flattering that I can make a grown man scream." She cast her eyes over him; he looked somewhat helpless standing there, unarmed, in his designer boxers. "You can't sleep?"

He glanced away, and she thought she saw a guilty look pass across his face. "No, I… I was sleeping just fine. Got up to use the toilet, and I thought I'd come and check you were okay." He eyed her with concern. "_Are_ you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She started slouching towards her bedroom, taking small, slow steps. He fell in line next to her. "Just… wandering. What the hell kind of security system do you call this, anyway?" She gestured around the hallway. "I've been walking around your house and I haven't seen a single alarm – that's bad, Walter."

"Oh, they exist." He sounded defensive. "I just didn't set it in case you needed to get up."

Oh. "That was nice of you," she told him patiently, as though speaking to a small child, "but kind of stupid. What if someone had broken in? Like, oh, I don't know… this guy who's trying to kill you."

He pressed his lips together and frowned down at her. For a moment, she thought they were going to get into another argument, but then he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Good point. Maybe you should come and protect me. My bed's pretty big, and you already know I don't kick…"

She shot him a stern look. "Keep going, and it'll be _me_ you need protecting from."

"Feisty," he murmured, stepping closer to her. "I think I'm up to the challenge."

"Okay, now I know Heckman was wrong to send you out here." She folded her arms and stared up at him, doing her best to ignore her racing pulse and the sudden sense that she was _too_ warm. "Clearly a week without supermodels has made you crazy and desperate. Maybe you should take a cold shower or something…"

He looked conflicted for a moment, and she wondered if she'd offended him. Then he smirked briefly and stepped away. "I know I seem like a daunting prospect, but I'm well worth the effort, I promise. Well… I guess you're familiar with my abilities."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Goodnight, Walter."

As she got back into her own bed, she considered his more recent flirtatious behaviour. It was familiar ground, and she preferred it to arguing with him, but she was starting to wonder _why_. Perhaps she had missed something…

She smiled tiredly, thinking of his dark eyes and the way they burned into her sometimes. Her last thought before sleep washed over her was that he didn't deserve to be stuck out here alone.

* * *

She woke the next morning to the smell of something cooking.

On the way to the kitchen, she collected her clean clothes from the washer-dryer and dressed quickly; it wasn't a good idea for her to stay much longer. She'd had some pretty vivid dreams last night after running into Walter in the hall, and as far as she was concerned, they were just the latest sign that she ought to be on her way.

Walter being flirtatious wasn't something to take seriously, she reminded herself. To him, it was natural behaviour. And even though she was certain that he'd been propositioning her the previous night, she was equally certain that he didn't have any intention of re-starting their former relationship. In any case, casual sex between them was no longer an option – of that, she was 100% positive.

_Gun, phone, money, keys._ She patted each item as she ran through her mantra. Travelling light was something she did quite well.

The kitchen was sunny and bright, and Walter Mashburn was once again slaving over a hot stove. He looked up as she entered and smiled. "Morning."

Oh – echoes of that very first morning-after.

She returned the smile, leaning over the kitchen counter to peer into the pan. "Eggs," she observed cheerfully. "And… other smells."

"Burnt toast," he informed her. "It's in the trash. You gonna help me out or what?"

"Just tell me what to do, Chef." She rolled up her sleeves and went to join him on his side of the counter. "Am I chopping, frying, broiling…?"

He handed her some plain bread. "You're toasting. This is really not a fancy breakfast."

Halfway through eating, her phone chirped. "Heckman," she announced. "Wants to know if we're still alive."

She texted him back one-handed, awkwardly scooping up eggs and tomatoes with her fork. " 'Have killed… Walter…'" she murmured as she typed. " 'About to fire… up… BBQ… now. Join me…. Bring fava beans… and beer.'"

He grinned at her. "You like me too much to kill me."

"Waa-ah ehht?" she said, her words muffled by toast.

"If that was supposed to be 'wanna bet', then… no. Not gonna argue with an armed woman."

"Smart choice."

Even after breakfast, she realised she was lingering, and cursed herself. _Get over it,_ she ordered. _You didn't even want to come here in the first place, now you won't leave?_

She did a final loop of the house, checked each room carefully, and paused at the reflecting pool one last time. The air outside was still; the roof still glistened with last night's rainfall, and the grass was damp and dewy. The sunlight had a piercing, strained quality that heralded a _really_ hot day. She hoped for Walter's sake that there would be a breeze, or he would go crazy.

"Okay," she said, at the front door. "Stay safe. If you change your mind about the safe house, or having an agent stay with you, call us. I'm serious, Walter."

"Oh, I know you're serious." He was frowning. He'd been practically petulant since she'd announced she was leaving, and even at the door he was being standoffish, keeping his distance. "Who's going to help me with the mill engine now?"

She ducked her head and smiled. Sometimes – just sometimes – he could be so very sweet.

"Walter, you're more than capable of doing it by yourself." Taking a chance, she closed the distance between them, stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. His beard was prickly against her lips and skin, and she patted it where she'd kissed it. "Take care of your beard, and yourself."

Unexpectedly, she found his arms sliding around her waist and pulling her tight against him. She had nothing else to do but put her arms around his neck. She let her eyes drift shut – just for a few moments, she promised herself. He squeezed her tight, and she squeezed back. "Be careful," he said, the words rumbling in his chest. "I'll see you soon. When this is over."

"Yeah," she whispered. Deep down, she didn't really believe it. He would go back to his life, and she would go back to hers – it was what they'd done before, after all.

She pulled away and smiled at him. "Goodbye, Walter."

The driveway was just a dirt track, and it was still slippery from last night's rain. She took her time, treading carefully, but every time she turned around, Walter was still standing in the doorway, watching her. When the driveway eventually curved out of sight, she gave herself a good smack on the back of the head. "Get a grip," she told herself.

To distract herself, she thought about work – about the team, and their last case. About the A.G., and how it seemed like _years_ since she'd had that meeting with him. Somehow, having her job threatened didn't seem like such a big deal after the last twenty-four hours.

Unfortunately, thoughts of Walter continued to intrude, and no matter how much she tried to occupy her mind, there was always a nagging sensation that she needed to go back.

It was a shame she'd never had a chance to swim in the pond, or hike through the forest, or even try out that enormous jacuzzi she'd caught a glimpse of in one of the other bathrooms.

He had a little gym in one room, with the most beautiful view of the National Park beyond Walter's patch of land. She could imagine working out there – alone, of course. If Walter were there, she knew they'd just distract each other. He would be too busy trying to balance showing off with leering at her, and she would try to puncture his ego while ogling him surreptitiously. The exercise benefit would be minimal.

She laughed to herself, and almost skidded on the track. It was her own fault, she decided, for being so self-indulgent with these little fantasies. But still that nagging sensation persisted…. She was almost at the road now; she dug around in her pocket for her phone, ready to call AAA. With any luck, they'd be quick about it at this time of the morning, and then she could be on her way back to Sacramento, leaving behind all thoughts of beautiful woodland houses with courtyards and reflecting pools and –

She stopped dead in the middle of the track.

The sliding doors – she had left them open. But when she'd hugged Walter, she'd had a clear view of that end of the house.

The doors had been shut.

Walter couldn't have shut them – he'd followed her straight to the door from the kitchen.

That left only one possibility…

Panic gripped her heart; she turned and started to run.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Loved it? Hated it? Want to order a Mash of your very own? Then please review!*

***NB:** I am in no way capable of sending you any of the following: Mash clones/Mash robots/kidnapped men who have undergone cosmetic surgery to make them _look_ like Mash/Currie Graham.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Black Rock Bound

**Author: **Avelynn Tame/ficcingwitch

**Disclaimer:** It pains me to say it, but I don't own anything to do with The Mentalist. If I did, I'd ensure that Lisbon had plenty more kickass moments, not to mention hot love interests.

**Summary: **Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. So when an enforced period of exile starts to drive him crazy, which of his former lovers is called upon to deal with him? That's right – the one with the gun.

**Author's Notes:** It's the last chapter already! Yes, I lack the ability to write extremely long fics, which is a shame, because Lisbon and Mashburn are so much fun to play with. **Thank you all so much** for reading and reviewing until now – I hope you enjoy this last instalment. Of course, I can't finish without giving special acknowledgement to my TM family: **TL, GQ and RSS.** I love you guys so much.

Happy reading!

* * *

The house looked quiet and still from the outside.

She didn't think about that.

She wanted to go crashing through the front door, raising all kinds of hell, whatever was necessary to send this bastard running as fast as he could in the other direction. That was her instinct as a person – as someone who cared about Walter Mashburn.

Her instinct as a cop said – shut up. Be quiet. Be stealthy. And maybe, this way, you catch the bastard and everybody's better off.

He hadn't locked the front door; her relief was tainted by faint anger that he had, once again, disregarded his own safety. Guilt added itself neatly to the mix – _she_ had left the sliding doors open. Perhaps, if she had thought to close them, she wouldn't be in this situation.

She pulled the door closed softly behind her, and listened carefully for sounds within the house.

At first, nothing. It was as quiet as it had seemed outside. She was on the verge of feeling stupid for overreacting, and then…

A grunt.

Moments later, the sound of a muffled, angry voice. A man's voice – but not Walter's.

_Shit._

She crept along the hallway, gun in hand, her steps light even in her boots.

She heard the voice again – not clearly enough to distinguish the words, but loud enough to localise it to the living room.

Too late, she realised that she should have called someone – Heckman, Cho, the Fresno office, _anybody_. But she had been so quick to rush back…

Weighing up the risks in her mind, she pulled her phone out of her pocket. Cho would be the one; he would know exactly what to do. Never mind that he was hours away – if anybody could handle any crisis, it would be Cho. She'd known that on her first day at the CBI.

She speed-dialled his number, listened to it ring until it connected, and left the phone on the table in the hall as she approached the living room door.

Whoever this guy was, he was still talking – at a lower volume now, but she could still hear the fury in his voice. The fact that he was talking at all suggested that Walter was still alive – and hopefully still conscious – but she'd met enough lunatics in the past to know that nothing could be guaranteed.

There was another grunt – it sounded painful. It sounded like Walter.

She moved into position outside the door. Stealth was no longer an option at this point – the door was closed, and she knew from experience that it had a hell of a squeak when it was opened. She held her gun level, her finger aligned with the barrel and ready to curl at a moment's notice.

Hand on the door handle, she waited for the right moment. Without a view into the room, it was impossible to time it perfectly. She had no way of knowing what – or who – she would find. For all she knew, there could be half a dozen people in there. They might be armed with machine guns, or pepper spray. She had no way of knowing, and no time to find out.

Her best hope was to wait for a sound that indicated that something was happening – that whoever was inside might, just for a moment, be distracted.

When that moment came, she was nearly driven to distraction herself. She'd never heard Walter Mashburn make a noise like that – a tortured howl of pain and misery – and she hoped she never would again.

She slammed the door open and yelled, "Stop what you're doing, you son of a bitch! Hands in the air!"

The first thing she saw was Walter huddled into the corner of the room, apparently trying to make himself appear as small as possible.

The second thing she saw was a tall, thin figure standing next to the fireplace with one foot in the middle of a pile of debris. She saw the glimmer of shiny brass… and recognised it as Walter's mill engine.

Apparently, that explained the unearthly noise he'd just made. She made a note to kick his ass for that later.

The tall figure, on closer inspection, turned out to be nothing more than a boy.

A teenager, to be precise – Lisbon placed him at sixteen or seventeen, perhaps eighteen at the most. He had cropped blond hair and he was staring at her – and her gun – with horror. She noted his black gloves… and the switchblade in his right hand.

It was difficult to reconcile the boy's apparent intentions with the fact that he had clearly frozen with fear. "Drop the knife," she commanded.

He didn't move.

She levelled the gun at his head. "Drop it, you little –"

It bounced off the marble hearth with a metallic _clatter_. "Good," she said smoothly. "Now put your hands in the air – that's it, high above your head – and step away."

He was almost robotic as he followed her instructions, but she didn't let her guard down for one second. He might have a youthful face and wide, terrified eyes, but that didn't mean a damn thing. She'd met some fairly sweet-looking murderers in the past, after all.

Without taking her eyes off the kid, she addressed Walter. "You okay?"

"Oh, yeah." His voice was at a noticeably higher pitch than usual. "Teresa Lisbon, meet my 'concerned acquaintance'. He's a really charming young man."

"Shut up!" the kid spat suddenly, his lip curled into a vicious sneer. "Just shut up, you self-righteous bastard!"

"Pipe down, _both_ of you," she ordered. "Here's what's going to happen – everybody's going to stay calm. _Nobody_ is going to get hurt. So let's all take a nice, deep breath, and relax."

She watched the boy watching her. She saw him unconsciously mimic her as she followed her own advice – long slow inhale and exhale, and repeat. If only Patrick Jane could see her now, she thought with some amusement. Jane thought he was the only one with any sway over dangerous criminals, but they didn't call her the 'crazy whisperer' just because _he_ was on her team.

"What's your name?" she asked the boy, when he looked a little calmer.

"What's it to you?" he muttered sullenly. "You're one of his bodyguards, right? What do you care about my name or anything else?"

One-handed, she removed her badge from her jacket pocket and showed it to him. "I'm a cop. Gonna need your name for my paperwork after I arrest you."

He snorted. "Yeah, that's right – arrest _me_. _He's_ destroyed hundreds of lives, but sure – arrest me."

She continued to stare at him, her eyes like stone.

"It's Liam," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "Liam Randall-Hodge."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Walter sit up a little straighter. "Keith's boy?" he asked softly. "I thought you were younger –"

"Oh, please, like you _care_." Liam turned to look at Walter. "Like I'm _somebody_ to you – that's a load of bullshit. Life's like a game, right? And you just push around your little pieces and laugh about it." He shook his head and glanced at Lisbon, a glimmer of nervousness returning to his eyes. "You're really wasting your time protecting a guy like this? Do you even know what he does?"

_Inhale, exhale_. "Why don't you tell me?"

"People like him, they're different, right? Rich people, I mean." He closed his eyes briefly, and Lisbon had the sense that he was half-talking to himself. "Like, they can buy and sell whole companies in hours, and then change their minds, and turn people's lives upside down, and it doesn't even matter." He threw a glare at Walter. "My dad met you. He said you were a good guy – you really listened to him. And then one day – bang, the company's changing hands. He was all sorry for you, thought it was, like, a hostile takeover or whatever." His eyes filled with hatred. "But it was a bet, wasn't it?"

Walter said nothing.

"You –" Liam's voice wavered a little. "You and some other rich asshole made a stupid _bet_ – and AV-Tech was the wager, right? But you lost. And overnight, my dad's whole life changed. Did you even know he got fired? He was one of the first to go – they decided to downscale, and hey, it didn't matter that he'd been working for AV-Tech before it even _was _AV-Tech – no, why would they care about that?"

"Liam –"

"You shut up!" He sounded almost hysterical. "Just shut up! Because of you, everything has changed. Don't pretend like you regret it or something."

Except Walter did regret it – she could already tell. Too bad Liam wouldn't believe her no matter what she said.

He was continuing, "… what kind of person _does_ that? You used a whole company as a wager. What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you make such a stupid decision?"

The question sounded rhetorical, so she was surprised to hear Walter respond. "Because I thought I would win." His voice was strained and quiet. "I thought – I didn't realise that Grossman had been making deals behind my back. We bet on the outcome of a multinational negotiation process – but he already knew what that outcome was. I didn't. I lost because… I played it honestly." He snorted. "How's that for irony? I would never – _ever_ – have put AV-Tech on the table if I'd known what Grossman was up to."

Liam shrugged. "That supposed to make me feel better? Make me feel _sorry_ for you?" His mouth twisted into a sneer. "I want you to suffer, you asshole – everything you've done to my family, I want you to have it a hundred times worse."

He moved quicker than she expected.

One moment he was in front of her, his hands in the air, spewing venom. The next, his hand flew for the back pocket of his jeans, and he was lunging at Walter.

She didn't really think about it – just moved.

She collided with Liam halfway across his path towards Walter. They hit the ground with some force, and it nearly knocked the wind out of her. He started flailing and kicking beneath her; she pressed all of her weight down against him, manoeuvring her body to get a better grip.

She felt a stinging sensation in her upper arm, and glanced down to see a neat incision through her jacket and bright red blood soaking through the fabric.

Spurred on by the reminder that he was still carrying a weapon, she grasped his arm and slammed it as hard as she could against the marble hearth.

He yelped, his fingers springing open, and the knife skittered across the hearth to join its larger cousin some distance away.

He still wriggled furiously; she jammed her knee into his back and slipped an arm loosely around the front of his neck, grabbing his shirt collar with her free hand. She bent the arm that was hooked in front of his neck, keeping some space between his throat and her elbow. "Listen, kid," she grunted into his ear, "I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't stop thrashing around, I'll put you in a chokehold. You know what that is, right? So just _calm_ down, okay?"

"You… bitch…" he rasped, and clawed at her arm.

"Hey!" Walter was suddenly in her line of sight, moving to squat in front of Liam and grab his arms firmly. "Watch your mouth!"

She met Walter's eyes briefly, and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Thanks."

He was breathing fast, his eyes bright with exhilaration, but she could tell from the slight trembling in his arms that he'd hit the other side of the adrenaline rush. Any second now, he was going to feel weak and weary, and she hoped –

The front door slammed open.

Her first thought was that an accomplice had just burst into the house, and that this whole situation was about to get much worse. But the familiar co-ordinated rhythm of heavy, sensible boots against the floor dragged an audible sigh of relief from her throat.

"CBI!" she heard someone boom.

"In here!" she yelled. Beneath her, Liam sagged, all resistance gone.

The four agents who performed a co-ordinated – practically balletic – entry into the room were totally unfamiliar to her, but she was no less glad to see them.

"This is your guy," she said, a little breathless, gesturing awkwardly at the boy she was pinning to the floor. "I'm Agent Lisbon. And this is –"

"Walter Mashburn, I presume," said the senior agent – short and stocky with mousy brown hair and a jaw like chiselled marble – his eyes betraying his own gratitude and relief as he lowered his gun. "You pressed your panic button?"

Her eyes darted between the agent and Walter.

"Panic button?" she repeated sharply. "You had a _panic button_?"

* * *

Nearly three hours later, Liam had been read his rights and dragged off to the Fresno office. Walter had been through his story several times and had at last surrendered himself to the paramedics for a laceration she'd been unaware of. He'd shown it to her with pride – it was on his right side, just at the line of his ribcage. "He jammed the knife against me as I came back inside – I didn't even realise he'd cut me until just before." He grinned at her. "That means I have a high pain threshold, right?"

She glared at him from her perch on a small, sturdy side-table. "If you think I'm going to dispense praise or sympathy, you can think again – how could you not tell me you had a panic button?"

He sighed. "Come on, Teresa – I mean, a panic button? Like I don't feel emasculated enough already."

"Emasculated? I was worrying about you being all by yourself with no help, and you're thinking of your ego?"

"I'm sorry," he said, with fond exasperation. "In the future, I promise I will tell you about any and all panic buttons I possess."

"Thank you," she sniped. "I feel so much better."

As if the house wasn't already crawling with enough CBI agents, Heckman and his boys arrived – and they'd brought her own team with them.

"Is _anyone_ left in Sacramento?" she wondered aloud as they made themselves comfortable in Walter's living room. "You guys really didn't need –"

"We wanted to, boss," said Van Pelt urgently. "Really."

"Interesting seminar you're attending," said Jane flatly. "Good accommodation, too."

She rolled her eyes. "Pipe down, Jane. Cho – did you get my call?"

"Yeah, boss." He nodded. "Van Pelt was tracing it when Heckman came to get us." He cast a sharp look at the man. "Would have been good to be in the loop earlier, you know?"

Lisbon scowled at Heckman. "Didn't I ask you to explain the situation?"

Heckman raised his hands defensively. "And yeah, I was _going_ to fill him in this morning. But – a lot of stuff happened." He glanced at her, contrite. "We were following the wrong guy, Lisbon. This whole time, we were looking at Keith Randall-Hodge – you know, this kid's dad? Figured he had a hell of a motive, not to mention the skills. So we've been following him everywhere – I mean literally, _everywhere._ Stan has been this guy's pee-buddy at his new job for the last three days. But this morning, the guys watching his house said, 'no, he's been home all night, but thought you might want to know that his son sneaked out and hasn't come back yet'."

A paramedic plucked nervously at Lisbon's jacket; she grimaced and removed it, keeping her gaze fixed on Heckman. "Let me guess – the kid's some kind of genius?"

"I'll say." Heckman propped his feet up on the coffee table, ignoring Walter's grunt of dissatisfaction. "He was supposed to be starting college early, full scholarship, the works. I mean, he didn't lose the scholarship or anything, but financially his family were thinking it'd be better if he just started work. Guess it pushed him over the edge."

She sneaked a casual peek at Walter – he looked steeped in guilt and remorse. Despite what she'd said about sympathy, she still wanted to go over there and…

_And what?_

Re-directing her thoughts, she said, "So – what, you guys hijacked a chopper? How'd you get here so fast?"

"Two choppers," Heckman agreed. "Sac-PD were in the mood to be kind, I guess. But the Fresno office is lending us cars to drive back, so when you're ready…"

"Yeah, that's –" She sucked in a sharp breath as pain flared in her upper arm. The paramedic was cleaning it – she realised it was a little deeper than she'd expected. "That won't need stitches, right?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Walter push himself abruptly to his feet and move swiftly in her direction.

"No, just some tape." The paramedic, a freckly young man with a wide-eyed, nervous gaze, seemed to be too intimidated to look her directly in the eye. "It's stopped bleeding, and I've cleaned it. But you should get it looked at again in a couple of days at your ER."

Walter insinuated himself into her personal space, leaning close to inspect the short gash. "Are you sure it doesn't need stitches?" he wanted to know, his worry undisguised. "It looks nasty."

She smacked him in the chest. "So does yours, but I didn't hear you asking to have it sewn up."

His eyes were dark and intense as he stared down at her. "I got off lightly." She heard a strained quality to his voice. "_I_ didn't tackle a guy with a knife."

"Everybody is alive, everybody is fine." She'd said the same words shortly after Liam had been led away in handcuffs. She began to wonder if he was actually listening to her.

To her dismay, Walter wandered off; Heckman leaned forward. "So how'd you know to come back, Lisbon?"

"Ugh, I should have thought of it sooner." She made a quick explanation of the sliding doors, half-expecting Heckman or someone else to criticise her stupidity in leaving them open. But no-one even mentioned it, which did not particularly make her feel better.

"The guy's an athlete," Heckman was muttering to himself. "On a bunch of teams, you know. I bet he scaled the building and came over the roof, the little bastard…"

"Teresa." Walter had returned, and he was holding the hardwood base on which the mill engine had been partially mounted. A few of the fixings remained attached, but the flywheel and the assembled piston were in pieces on the floor. "Did you see what he did?"

He looked so forlorn. She remembered his endless enthusiasm for putting it together, his determination that they would get it done, and his disappointment when she'd pointed out his growing exhaustion. "It'll still be here in the morning," she'd said. She almost wished she'd stayed up to finish it, although perhaps that would have made it all the more upsetting when Liam crushed it so brutally.

She reached out and gently tugged the base from his hands, her fingers momentarily tangling with his. "I'm sure it can be salvaged. The store was selling these pieces separately as accessories – we can go pick some up if we need to."

The pleased look he gave her in response seemed to mask a glimmer of something else – some deeper satisfaction that sent an odd thrill through every nerve in her body.

"Great," said Heckman. "So – you guys are ready to go?"

Walter was still looking at her, scrutinising her face carefully. "No," he replied firmly. "I need some time to pack my stuff together."

She sensed Heckman looking between the two of them, but she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from Walter.

"O-_kay_," said Heckman. "Well, we can wait –"

"No," she spoke up. "It's fine, I'll stay and help Walter pack. If you guys can sort out the tire on my car –"

"Done and dusted," Rigsby announced proudly. "It's as good as new, boss."

She grinned briefly at him. "Thanks, Rigsby. Well, since that's sorted out, I guess you guys don't need to stay. I'll drive Walter back when we're done here."

Even as she spoke the words, her heart was pounding, her own voice echoing in her head: '_when we're done here… when we're done here…'_

Done doing what, exactly?

"Good to see you again, Walter," Jane was saying, as the agents were getting ready to leave. "Shame about the circumstances, but…" his eyes darted to Lisbon. "Well, I'm sure you'll live."

Lisbon narrowed her eyes at him as he turned to look at her, his face carefully inscrutable. "You know, Lisbon, I never really bought that 'seminar' excuse."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Jane, you've mentioned that a few times now."

"Mmm." He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Sort of begs the question, doesn't it – why you lied, I mean."

_Inhale, exhale._ "Jane, anyone who's ever worked with you – hell, anyone who's ever _met_ you – could tell you why lying to you often seems like a really good idea." She folded her arms loosely across her chest. "Don't hold your breath for an apology. I'll see you when I get back."

Jane gave her one last shrewd look before turning back to Walter. "I heard about Miss USA. Congratulations, you're the envy of every man in the country. Hope that goes well for you."

She felt a sudden rush of irritation, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting. He was digging, and poking, and prodding – all because he was determined to provoke some kind of reaction from them. She remembered what Walter had said about Jane's attitude when they were dating, and wondered if he was thinking 'I told you so' right now.

To her surprise, Walter grinned widely at Jane. "You want her number? I can get that for you – pretty sure she's still single, as a matter of fact." He elbowed Jane lightly in the side. "She wasn't really my type, anyway – well, I guess you already know that. So if you like her, then go for it. Love waits for no man."

"Time," Cho interjected on his way out. "Time waits for no man."

"Oh." Walter shrugged. "Close enough. See you soon, Patrick – let's go for a beer sometime."

Jane actually looked slightly flummoxed by the bizarre turn of the conversation; Lisbon was now biting the inside of her cheek for a different reason.

"Jane!" Cho barked from the doorway. "You coming or what?"

"Uh, that's my cue…" He looked as though he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. "See you guys later, I guess."

She held it together for a few minutes, but as soon as the last agent was gone, she turned to Walter and expelled a loud snort-laugh. "Did you see his face?" she cackled.

"I know!" Walter hooted. "He was thinking, 'how the hell did I get strong-armed into –"

" – taking the phone number of a supermodel!'" She covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed. "I think that's the first time I've ever seen him like that." The table shook beneath her, and she grabbed hold of Walter's arm without thinking. "Whoa, okay, I'm going to get down."

Walter moved to inspect her arm again as soon as she was down, and she tutted. "Walter, leave it, it's fine."

To her surprise, he bent to kiss the clean white gauze that covered it. "There. You want to kiss mine?"

He'd meant it as a joke – she knew that from the light in his eyes. And even though she'd turned to him fully intending to deflect with sarcasm, there was a palpable shift in the atmosphere between them. His gaze turned serious. He was standing close enough that she could see his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed… close enough that she couldn't miss the way his gaze fell to her mouth.

She inhaled sharply. "Walter, I –"

He threaded his fingers through her hair, his hand cupping her cheek. Her skin tingled, and she forgot what she'd been about to say.

"There's something I've been wanting to say to you," he breathed. "Something I _have_ to say, Teresa…"

Her heart drummed harder against her ribcage as she waited.

"How…" His thumb stroked her cheekbone. "How… could you have been _so stupid_?"

She blinked, the spell broken. "What?"

"How could you have been so stupid," he repeated, "as to _tackle_ a guy with a _knife_?"

Any sense of anticipation she'd felt fizzled away into nothingness, and she glared at him. "Are you kidding? Did you somehow miss the fact that he was about to – hmm, what's the phrase I'm looking for – _stab_ you?"

"Right, so your plan to stop him was to put yourself in a position where he could stab _you_ instead?"

Okay, she was feeling pretty annoyed now. "Yeah, because I'm so incompetent," she snapped. "Walter, I've tackled plenty of people in the past – some of them armed, and most of them much worse than that kid. I'm not going to apologise for doing what I felt was necessary to save your life."

His fingers curled around her upper arms, gripping so tightly she knew they would bruise. "And how do you think I would have felt, if you had died to save my life?" His eyes burned into hers, his jaw clenched tightly. "Huh? Did you think about that?"

"Walter –"

"That kid was kind of crazy, sure, but – you know, I _already_ wished I'd never made that stupid bet with Grossman. I've spent months regretting it, and not because of the money, or because I'm a sore loser – I _did_ regret losing those people. But you know what?" He closed his eyes briefly. "I could have done something about it. I could have bought it back off Grossman, or at least funnelled some of AV-Tech's employees off to one of my subsidiaries before the acquisition. But I figured those things sounded weak, and I had other fish to fry, so I didn't do them. I didn't care enough. And this is the result."

She stared at him, astonished – in all the time she'd known him, he had never once seemed fazed by the idea of having enemies. He didn't care what most people thought of him – only the ones who mattered, he'd told her with a smile.

His grip on her arms tightened again. "If I'd known it would put you at risk –"

"Oh, Walter." She sighed, and reached up to cup both of his cheeks, smiling slightly as she felt the beard beneath her fingertips. "Stop it, okay? So you made another enemy – and yeah, maybe it could have been avoided. But a wise man once told me that 'people hating you is just a normal part of leadership'. And I really liked that guy for saying it, because I felt like he understood what it's like for me to be a leader every day."

His lips twitched. "You're quoting _me_? Teresa, I give terrible advice, I think that's pretty clear –"

"Every week," she raised her voice to speak over him, "if we're lucky, we catch our bad guy. Or girl. But I can guarantee you that every week, I'll walk away from at least one more person who hates me, and I'm not talking about the killer – I mean, people I interviewed as a suspect, or a family member of the victim. They want everything to go smoothly and perfectly. They want you to coddle them, apologise to them, make everything better. And I can't do that. So even if I do my job perfectly, someone ends up hating me. Some days, it might even be one of my bosses." She let her hands slip down to rest against his chest. "Look, I'm not saying that what you did was right, I'm just saying… please don't hate yourself for it. You're a good man; a lot of people know that. A lot of people care about you. So don't… dwell, okay?"

Without warning, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I am so incredibly glad you're alive," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin.

"And I repeat – don't dwell." She patted his chest and moved to step away from him.

Except… Walter's hands were resting fearlessly – and firmly – on her hips. She glanced up at him to find a smirk playing about his lips. "Not so fast," he said boldly. "I'd really like to discuss this feeling of gladness a little more."

She laughed softly. It was good to see him regain his spirits, but she no longer trusted herself to read his intentions. He'd fooled her a few times recently, after all. "Yes, yes, you're glad, I'm glad, everybody's glad," she said lightly. "I think we've said it all."

His gaze turned serious; he continued to hold her tightly against him. "Have we?" he asked.

Her heart rate was on the increase again. The last twenty-four hours had been like one giant cardio workout for her. "Walter…" she began hesitantly, her mouth dry. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

_Oh, mistake._

Any trace of a smile slipped off his face; his eyes darkened as they fell to her mouth. "I dreamed about you," he said thickly. "Last night, when you were sleeping in another room, I dreamed you were in my bed. I wanted you so much. I've spent six months trying to pretend that it was just a fling – trying to move on – but I'm so tired of pretending now."

She hadn't realised how much she'd wanted to hear that until the moment he said it. She didn't even try to stop the words slipping out of her mouth. "I dreamed about you, too." She shook her head. "I thought you were over me. I thought you _had_ moved –"

He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her forcefully towards him to meet her mouth in a bruising kiss.

Every kiss she'd shared with him in the past had had a seductive quality to it – he'd focused on being smooth and sweet, enticing her. It had never been like this – desperate, intense, imperfect; his lips sliding hungrily against hers as they exchanged shallow, shaky breaths. His stubble scraped her skin, setting it on fire, and she gasped into his mouth, her hands fisting in his shirt.

He held her securely against his body even as he was pushing her backwards towards the table; she groped blindly behind her with one hand for the edge, ready to push herself up, but his hands grasped her thighs and he lifted her –

"Ow," he hissed suddenly, pulling back. "Ow ow _ow_!" His hand flew to his side, where she knew the laceration lay. A few spots of blood had begun to seep through.

"Oh, Walter…" She hopped down from the table for the second time in fifteen minutes. "Let me look at it."

* * *

In retrospect, she wondered what she'd been thinking.

Honestly – leading Walter Mashburn into his bedroom and stripping him down to the waist? It was hardly going to end with either of them taking a vow of celibacy.

He had stretched the skin around the laceration when he'd lifted her. The bleeding was minor, but she decided it was worth cleaning and re-dressing anyway. He seemed to enjoy her attentions from his reclining position on the bed, if his continued smirking was any indication. Despite her stern instructions not to move too vigorously, as soon as she'd taped the gauze down and fatally announced that she was done, he was sitting up and reaching towards her again.

She rolled her eyes and looked down at him where he sat on the edge of the bed. "Walter…"

He tucked his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans and tugged her towards him, bringing her to stand between his legs. "Yes?" he asked innocently, pushing her t-shirt up to expose her abdomen. "Something you wanted to say?" He pressed a kiss to her stomach, to the curve of her hip.

Without thinking, she threaded her fingers through his hair, gently dragging her nails against his scalp. He hummed pleasantly against her abdomen, his teeth nipping her skin. "Walter," she tried again, "is this really a good idea?"

He pillowed his chin on her belly and tilted his head up to look at her. "You mean, starting over?"

She blinked at him. "Is that what we're doing?"

He wound his arms around her legs; his hands seemed to brand her where they burned against her jeans. "I'm not letting you go this time," he said firmly, turning his head to kiss her skin again. "I want to try this – us – again."

Without taking her eyes off him, she reached for her phone and stabbed for Cho's speed-dial number. She lifted the phone to her ear, her other hand still playing idly with Walter's hair. He watched her with some trepidation, and her lips curved into a reassuring smile.

Cho answered on the second ring. "Hey, boss."

She heard Jane's voice in the background. "Is that Lisbon? Can I talk to her?"

"Hey, Cho," she greeted him. "Don't give Jane the phone, okay?"

"Wasn't planning to, boss." There was a faint note of amusement in his voice – only those who knew Cho well would be able to pick it out. "You want us to come back?"

"No!" she said hastily. "Um, no. I need you to pass a message to Hightower and Bertram when you get back, okay? Tell them…" Her eyes roved over the dark-haired man who was holding on to her as though he thought she'd disappear at any given moment. "Tell them I'm on vacation for the next week."

The surprised, gleeful grin that spread across Walter's face was a sight to behold. He squeezed her legs joyfully and she slapped at his hands half-heartedly.

Cho was silent, but his own surprise was palpable even down the phone.

"They've been bugging me to use at least some of the days I've accrued," she continued. "Last time I spoke to Hightower, she was threatening me with enforced leave. So I'm pretty sure they won't argue about it."

"No problem," Cho said. "You gonna need anything?"

"No," she replied, not bothering to hide the smile in her voice. "I've got everything I need right here."

* * *

**Epilogue.**

Her arms cut powerfully through the cool, clear water; the large ripples ran all the way to the edge of the pond and dissipated against the rocks. The hot sun streamed through the trees, warming her back, glinting brightly off the water's surface.

She reached the end of the pond and stopped for a breather, taking the opportunity to enjoy her surroundings. It was so beautiful here. She was beginning to dread her return to work in a few days' time – to have to go back to the noisy, polluted city after _this_?

She tipped her head back to rest on one of the rocks, the ends of her dark hair fanning out around her in the water. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the sun on her face…

"…preciate your concern, but it's none of your business."

Her eyes flew open at the sound of Walter's voice, tense with anger, somewhere in the distance.

She swam quietly around the edge of the pond until she reached the point at which his voice sounded loudest. She strained to hear any other sounds – such as the voice of the person he was arguing with – but there was nothing except faint birdsong.

"… think you've made it pretty clear what you think of me," Walter was continuing, "_and_ my relationship with Teresa, but why you think you have any influence –"

There was a pause. She frowned, trying to puzzle it out. He must be on the phone, she decided, but the question remained – to whom?

"I'm not going to hurt her," Walter snapped. "I'm in love with her, Jane, and if you think…"

She couldn't hear anything after that, just the sound of her blood rushing in her ears.

_I'm in love with her._

They'd never reached that stage in their previous relationship. Questioning and analysing his feelings for her – that wasn't something she'd ever felt comfortable doing. After they'd broken up, the way his private life had been splashed around in the tabloids had seemed to be a pretty conclusive statement of how much he had – or hadn't – felt for her.

The last week had proved her wrong about quite a lot of things. She'd also had the fun of surprising Walter on a few occasions, too.

But as far as revelations went, this most recent one took the cake.

The rustle of grass caught her by surprise, and she turned to see Walter trekking across the clearing towards the pond. "Skinny-dipping again, Agent Lisbon?" he said as he reached her. "What kind of example are you setting for other people?" He tugged his t-shirt off over his head and kicked his boots to one side.

"You corrupted me in the first place," she said defensively, her cheeks a little pink. His words were still echoing inside her head: _I'm in love with her. I'm in love with her._

She noticed the lines of tension still visible on his face. "Everything okay?" she asked softly. "I thought I heard your voice – someone called you?" She felt guilty for being vague, but if he wasn't ready to say it to her yet, she didn't want to push him.

Walter frowned as he stepped out of his jeans. "Jane," he admitted, pulling his boxers off and lowering himself gently from the rocks into the pond next to her. "He thinks I'm holding you hostage here or something."

"Holding me hos –" she burst out.

"Emotionally," he clarified. "Somehow. I mean, I have no idea how you'd do that, but whatever he's talking about, he thinks you wouldn't stay here of your own volition."

She put a hand on his knee underwater. "Jane," she said succinctly, "can be a real idiot sometimes. Why are you listening to a word he says? You already know he thinks we're a bad match or something."

He shook his head. "He thinks I'm going to hurt you. Cheat on you, lie to you, make your life a misery." He glanced carefully at her. "You know my history. You know I've done those things in the past. Other people wouldn't trust me, so… why should you?"

Only one answer came to mind. It was hardly a revelation, but it sent a shiver down her spine nonetheless when she leaned in close to him and said, "Because I love you." Truthfully, she'd expected to struggle with the concept of saying words she hadn't said in a very, very long time. But they came remarkably easily.

One minute she was sitting next to him.

The next, she was straddling his lap, Walter's fingers digging tightly into her hips. Despite the fact that her breasts were level with his head, his gaze was trained firmly on her eyes. "Don't toy with me, woman," he said lightly, but she could hear the underlying note of caution.

She wiggled her hips against his, smiling at his sharp intake of breath. "You know me pretty well," she murmured, bracing her hands on the flat rock behind him and leaning closer. "You know I can't – and won't – say things like that without being absolutely sure of it. I promise you, Walter –"

He snaked a hand up the back of her head, tugging it down so he could kiss her firmly, hungrily, his tongue scraping her teeth, her hair falling in a curtain across their faces. "You don't need to promise," he told her. "I trust you more than anybody."

The water was cold against her skin, but she felt warm all the way up from her toes. Somehow, hearing that he trusted her felt a thousand times more important than hearing that he –

"I love you so much," he mumbled against her mouth.

Oh.

She'd thought she was happy moments earlier. Now she felt as though she was about to burst. Her smile was actually hurting her face.

"Hey, if I'd known it would make you _that_ happy, I'd have told you when I first met you." His hands skimmed the length of her waist, moving to palm her breasts. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Maybe then you'd have come with me on my go-fast boat."

"Sure, that would have been fun. You… me… your girlfriend." She pinched his shoulder lightly. "A delightful afternoon for everyone."

He shrugged. "Okay, point taken, but you could have shown up later in the investigation." He leered at her, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Maybe you couldn't get me out of your head. Maybe you were tormented by thoughts of me, and that's why you stayed away."

"Okay," she said, moving as though she was about to climb off him, "have fun swimming alone."

He grabbed her hips, pinning her in place. "Hey, I thought you were happy with me…" He moved one hand to slide over the curve of her buttock.

She sighed, remembering his words, and relented. "Yeah, okay, I'm happy with you."

"You don't _sound_ happy…" Bolder now, he slipped one hand daringly between her legs; she gasped and swore as her hips jerked involuntarily.

"Fine," she said breathlessly, "guess I'll just have to show you, then."

* * *

**THE END!**

**Author's Notes:** I actually hate writing 'the end', but there it is. (And – yeah, I'm pretty terrible at writing the last lines in a nice 'complete' way. If I had my way, I'd include a button in the text that allowed you to leap through the screen and _be_ Lisbon. I would totally push such a button…)

When Mash kisses Lisbon's abdomen, it's a reference to Smoke Screen (watch it, okay? Forget the actual plot of it, just watch for Currie Graham).

Anyway – thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the fic!


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